[…] I don’t feel anything, naturally, since I’ve somatized the anxiety.

Now a gen'ral gape goes round, And vapours cloud each sleepy head.

[…] I'm floundering at sloppy deliberation in the choice of every new word, and thus damned up in my soul is left to rot. The limit of my foremind to tap and drain onto paper any flow from my residue of self-saturated thoughts is usually half a page at any one sitting.

And then a shared half-smile at the glimpse and a resting of hand over hand, and a deep slow breath taking in the seagulled air and the harbour and the sky.