My mind is completely adrift, lingering upon the ever passing moment. Nothing seems to saturate me. I wish to be drenched, and yet, I long for the outdoors, I long for flight, I seem to plead for uselessness and still sit and am divided. My cider sits, as a weak attempt to center myself, and it steams quietly mocking me. I wish to steam, I wish to be concentrated, I wish to have passion like a heat filling and brimming inside me until it can no longer be contained, but am condensed upon the paper as a steam to the ceiling. If only I could dictate the nature of the steam. How we all wish we could dictate the nature of spontaneity