Every day I write.
I write here.
I write because I want to - or if, as sometimes, reluctant - by discipline;
writers are meant to write.
But tonight - too much in my head and not enough to make a sentence.
Childhood haunts me, disorganised. Telescope wrong-ended.
Then it teases me, becoming now for a nanasecond.
Lost again, then I feel vividly happy. just for a nana
Not making sense? To me, neither. Unsense.
Tiredness, serial indigestion, a kind of solid fever.
Unsleep.
