I am expressed therein, I think, or thought, when reading, and not writing. It's not not writing, exactly: the burden of poof over there where I've carved out my little slab is heavily weighed upon my crook, it seems, and the heaving and hoving aren't getting me nowheres. It's not dire, but something. As I drift further away I feel on one hindleg a freedom, on the other a remorse.

I'm hidden beneath it sometimes.