So the fog has come and will not lift. This is the stand-in for comatose, the feeling of ill-will that pillages the rocky perches of the gut and robs it of purpose. I want to apologize for lack of unity and playful jabs that lead to epidermal mildewing, gutteral erosion and clogged pathways. The bone on bone clash that was to be memorialized in an open field is not about to happen this day. It will be saved for another day.
Meanwhile I will examine my scratches on paper from previous days and hope for magic to emanate from them. I do not know, but I hope.