I sit for a while in a vague fog. I am tired and restless both. There are unfinished things, most of them little. The week is still a crevasse until Thursday night, when the busiest work is over. Each of my thoughts seems bound up in the body. Concern with a little pride furrows my brow, blunt worry twists my stomach, flights of fancy carry away the top of my head and my forearms, the weight of the past is now digested, the future is in my temples, resolutions grit my teeth, and my thighs wait for dances with success.
The stone confuses the German in my fingers. It should be placed in a machine somewhere, a counterweight in a metronome, perhaps. But it is here to bring my mind and body together, to let go of purpose.
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