I picked up a pen. Because maybe need practise. To get into the groove per se. But how does this work? I can blame the convulsing train for these seizures in penmanship, attempting to rout the unfamiliar. Shunted to the newest port-of-call, the latest unwanted destination.

The body can often find the mind in different places, stages, and what is both the most concrete and the most (excruciatingly) abstract, the penultimate state of mind. For something that is always changing, this fragile tissue aims to maintain eveyrthing as stationary. No longer in a state of passage. Suspended in motion. Psychological limbo. This is a somewhat constant state of transit, neither here nor there, A nor B, where you were nor where you want to be.

One can draw one more parallel for a less abstract notion to amalgamate this; neither past nor future. This leaves us with the the current: now. I neglect to say present. The very word takes away the somewhat urgency of what is indefintely the real experienced state. Until further notice. Hence we use 'the present' which will be meticulously documented so that it may become the past.

This state of 'the present' never leaves us. That is how one particularly hapless day can meld into the next so easelessly that our smallest desperation is rendered elastic, and we almost certainly make the stretch.

Now isn't when you are lying on the shower floor, or reading in the dimming daylight. Now is when you are thrown into intancy the thirty seconds before your station, when your urges exceed your logic, when you keep calling in lieu of reception or any semblance of an answer.

Any semblance of an answer. That is what we seek so to justify becoming a monument to the past.