It's driving me crazy, I need to write something, anything. I need to feel the words flowing out of me, see syntax, observe the changes in form and morphology, correct spelling, play with syntax, play with form, elucidate ideas, couch ideas in vivid expression, couch expression in vivid ideas. I just want to write, something, anything, like a deep primordial expansion, a drive within me. I just want to get out language, pure language like a clay and play with it and mold and shape it like a pot, a glorious shining painted vessel that can contain sloping water of days and God. How wonderful it is to feel, even imagine the feel, of a pen shaping words beneath the guiding stear of my wrist, even if the imagination is only the reality of clicking, how great to put words and sounds to abstract actions and ideas.

Poetry. The virgin conception. Filled with God, our minds are changed by what we read, what we see. There is no time. The soul is moving too fast, I can't pinion it down, like a conveyor belt at full throttle. I want so much, and I feel as if there were no time for anything. I want to freeze time. This night, this day have slid by. Life is sliding me buy, and I want to grasp it, control it. That is why -- language, wherein my expertise, my higher skills and abilities lie, I want to take that and mold the form of the world to fit myself, I can't.

I need to stop wanting. I need to pause. I need to sleep. I need to give up and accept, not except, mortality. Mortality is myself, the way of the world. We shall all die. All of us. You will be dead, this will be dead, extinguish. Life even now flickers on the edge, a tapering flame. Glory in the warmth-and-burnt. God.