I have a hard time with waiting. As if every single act has an ideal instance of action, and they all land on the back burner until the moment shows itself. In subsequent truth, I now own a vast shelf of ignored ideas and trials, passed their prime, missed out on, lost in their own space just to fill a corner of future conversation where I once had a thought and lost it to a whim. Each moment itself a ghost of my former face in a former time and former place, left and left forever; only for me to visit in regret and faded contemplation of glory days that never quite made it. I get so lost in my mind, the last to pull a thread, the anxious awe my name, I’ve lived in vivid waves.