To write without falling into the stupor, the inaccuracy of drowsy introspection as perspective deserts me.
Wading, groping about while the thing, the thought, barely brushes my fingertips and dissolves before I can even guess at its texture. Let alone its name.
Exhausting; where I decide, good enough, when I know it is not.
All I want is to say what I mean.
the friendly quiet 