I have measures of conflict between doubt and confidence.
I am a ******* alcoholic, supposed to set myself aside from myself.
Then I read a piece of prosaic fiction and I forget everything.
I forget who I am.
I feel this surge of undeniable purpose, I cease to exist outside of this
        world I hid under.
It reminds me of the words I carry in my head
reminiscent of what I meant to convey in abstract terms of the Candlemaker
A plane where a piece of me resides, where no one can see or visit
unless I take up the pen and scribble a few words down on a single sheet of paper
effectively, casually creating another sphere to add to the countless that already reside in the
        infinite.
Maybe someone else could find a piece of themselves
in a few words.
All of this time wasted elsewhere
when all I have to do is draw these lines in shapes called letters
and everywhere is at my feet.