my brain has been flooded with numbers on pink and white pages. this is my task.

they do scream, the ghosts. sometimes they whistle and howl as I walk down the street. sometimes they just shout to be let out of the goddamn dumpster.

you're out of the dumpster, I tell her. I at least got you that far.

then she curses me and turns to shake fists with anyone I've written remotely like her. April, Modestus. the ladies of stories no one knows if I'll finish

I am one brain or the other. I wash dishes, I clean the house, I sally forth from toward blah blah

but when I turn on the creative brain, when I focus on that, everything else loses focus; the dishes are not done, I don't want to wake up in the mornings, I need to shower, the tea doesn't get made
to grow cold

but none of this matters at the moment
all I am are four digit numbers and corresponding dates
arranged , collated in descending order