So I putter

In some subliminal effort to get to the next page, or step into that twelve-or-forty-eight--hours-later moment, we fidget and tinker and blur our way into one long, hazy series of staccatos.

As if it would matter how we get there. As if it would cross our minds how precious energy and even more precious time are wasted in the getting-there.

Has it ever? Crossed your mind? If so, what did you do?

I had always gone on. Stopping would have meant becoming entangled in my whirl of things, tangible and otherwise.

It would have escaped me, altogether, how it is to come back.

So, move. Move.