A recurring difficulty in my life is the arbitration that is required to govern the many impulses campaigning to be elected into that coveted seat that determines focused activity, each hoping to fill this glove of potential for long enough to hatch into at least a nudging touch on the clay of materialized stories evolving in, through, in front of, and around me. Even only that sentence just now has had to struggle to see the light of black on white without which it could never hope to be remembered and, more devastatingly, to even gain existence in the first place.
A thought fully thought is a wave perfectly crashing into itself to cancel out its own noise, a beautiful tautology of arbitary inner complexity. There has to be something left unresolved, the end of a string to hold on to and unravel its trace and be led back to the place where you can see that, and why, and how, the sculpture it holds the key to is unfinished and is, mysteriously, essentially characterized by its unfinishedness, is about its own unfinishedness.
But anyway, I digress. All this was meant to be is a note to myself that I should remember to breathe, stretch, and drink water.