All the words are scrambled behind my eyes, victims of lit monitors spewing forth endless images.
The clatter and chaos of my surroundings limits free thought -
For the most part, language goes through a process of distillation, emerging efficient and stark.
Deeply complex ideas become simple statements of truth requiring a moment of wary faith.
In this world of language drought
My mind moves in monologue;
I have become starved for conversation.
Profound moments come in quick bursts like firecrackers across my brain
Leaving little impression beyond the echo of their light.
I grapple for some method of notation before it is all gone;
I litter bits of paper around me, seeming to exist within an exclamation mark.
Taken altogether, there is a sense of missing grace.
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