I've stopped and started and stopped, only to start the prose again. There's a time and place for everything, and right now, I'm reading the barometer. The pressure is exact, it's time to begin. Again. Each edit steady, swift, and sure, and then, in an instant, all changed with a few keystrokes.
Several years since this adventure in navel-gazing first began, I could have hardly imagined myself to be where I am today. Things I once thought unbelievable in my life have all taken place. Yet many tenuous gaps gape at the seams here. Still: it's the exercise of analysis that makes me resist the truth of this futile typing, an electronic memento, a small glimpse into what swarms in this skull.
The hour is late. There's so much to say beyond these cryptic lines. Bonne nuit, my lovelies.