It’s Monday morning, cold, deep, and dreary as I gaze across the bleached skyline of uptown Vancouver, tired and cross-eyed, my mind warped and wobbled, dripping with anxiety about life and changes and missing the fragile lost components of a weekend spent writing, ripping, rendering, and otherwise exposing the twisted mashes of mind and muse, motions of the mouse mapping curious collections of cobbled cadded designs and whimpering words whispering echos of etched thoughts rather than waiting for work to dwindle into yet another memory, secure and waiting for nothing but a notion that the day has yet to end and life has yet to settle, reformed and cohesive, regular as if oceans, their tides predicable and soothing, steady yet moble and eternal have nothing to yield but a predictable pattern where there is always something to come and always something that has been, so unlike life, but a constant tease towards the hope that something, somewhere, someday will cohese into random elements of pure purpose and my day will seem more purposeful and less scattered. Or not.