I type my password again.

My account is unavailable I’m told.

Down for unscheduled maintenance.

And just like that, this 21st century life is on hold.

Sad as it seems, this is the only thing I do.

So, though I feign interest in the BBC’s stories.

Re-check my emails, from me, from you.

And consider my guitars, forlorn, unloved.

I smell coffee, a scent of progress,

measuring out the lives for some  writers’ nostrils.

But just passing the time here.

And I guess that perhaps there are five pieces of clothing

In the pile on the floor.

I retype my password again.

I notice the second part of the message then, powerless.

‘It should be available again within a few hours.’

But the mess that my room is in can wait by the door.

Near the jewel cases crest fallen from the stereo.

I debate whether to shred those papers.

Sift them slowly – allowing the developers time to finish -

but decide to shift them below me.

And while I wait, I could check my myspace page.

But it’s just a pretender these days.

My glass of water is empty.

My throat scratchy.

No doubt due to the dust that is all about me.

I could do something about that, I suppose.

But my account might be ready, who knows?

I retype my password again.

And Log in.

I have no new notifications.

No new messages. No updates.

And I like nothing sufficiently to comment.

I log out.