like a raw pile of papers, with pencil markings on them, beginnings of words, lines of thought turned sideways on themselves, ignorant of a reality beyond the edge of the page.
less like a bound book with content that has been edited lovingly by hours and hours of many caring minds.

a counterbalance made out of frozen mercury and little dirty rocks of various shapes.
even if the idea of that picture will change faster than the words describing it could.

the morning is running away.

i will need to leave soon.

there are rides to catch.