Lately, my body sets its bedtime like a peak flow meter. It establishes a time and follows it like clockwork. But if I force it up past then, it sets that as the new time. And nothing I do will get me to sleep at the old time.

However, any resemblance to a schedule at all is an improvement for me.

I have a drawer filled with countless scraps of paper that I will probably never look at again. This doesn’t stop me from adding to the pile. But the more I do and the larger it grows, the more unlikely it is I’ll build the determination to sort through them.

Because I’m rarely able to communicate the incessant chatter of abstract ideas in my head in any manner, I make hasty notes whenever the opportunity arises. This means using whatever is available at the time so I don’t forget. Of course, since I never go back and read it, it amounts to about the same thing.

In fact, the harder I try to express one feeling the more I seem to project another.