Head Is Like A Seive.

Two pen knives sticking in each temple lobe. Concentrate. Tired in my bones. In breath. Out breath.

Like a tornado, yes, thoughts careering in on themselves. The calm will be back shortly simply because it must. A cross-section of my brain would look like:

• Do I remember how to do warrior II properly?
• Will I find the time and fortitude tonight to sit?
• "I'm glad you popped into my life."
• How will I get transportation...?
• How do two people actually really connect?
• Click click whirrrrr.
• My bed is a warm haven that beckons me, cutting off my focus.
• What is the goal of all of this? Life looks so random, but really, how random can it be?
• The amber light under a surface of clear water. Unwavering.
• Trying to control emotions that have no desire to be controlled. And to what end?
• Do I divulge enough information to him? Lately when I talk I feel like the words are representative of these stray arrows.
• Forget about shining up that icon.
• So hard to keep this in mind, in the thick of it!
• No comparisons because you're not going to go over those old and tired synapses.

Oh time, you fleeting beast! All that we have and yet of late I feel that it works so doggedly against me. I am no longer captivated by Rimbaud. Our work is to be sustainable. The candle doesn't need to burn at both ends, despite my previous statement, there is time for everything. Shhh. Come to a dead stop and look around you. How would you do things differently? Make your notes and continue about your task.