The stream of consciousness has turned into a torrent. There’s this overwhelming urge—one I haven’t had in a very long time—to write, even when I have nothing to say.

Dreams of punctuations. Are commas like scythes, or is that just confabulation? Em dashes make arrows in a forest of dreams, but workbooks lie waiting, patiently, to strike back at me at the end of the day. Wave upon wave, the words crash and tumble. I’m trying to focus, but all I feel are these things in my head trying to get out and party. Tiffany Aching in my head; wee free men on my mind. Terry Pratchett, how I hate you right now!