which began Monday, obviously, but I've begun loosing track of time, all weekend preoccupied, today preoccupied, with waiting, with having my head screwed back on straight for me. A friend said: at times you build, but then there are the times you are built. Days of forging. It seems the real boredom of intense busyness is that so little shifts into significant form. So little progresses in the force of days. So that a sudden pause seems important, even if it is all this involuntary dreaming, just that. "You think you understand. You don't understand." Leaves in wind and light. I still don't understand light.
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