Gathering a coherent thought at the moment seems slightly out of grasp. Yet here I am, trying anyway. The self-imposed deadline is being tested, for sure. Must be my addiction to being spread thin. Something that does have its rewards, this I know. Doesn’t necessarily make it easier but try I must.

Oh, the futility of fulfilment. Cursed by the blessing of instinctual internal wiring that seems to make any sort of satisfaction contained in this biological combustion engine eternally beyond grasp. Always something more. The search for something yet unattained while disregarding any horde of deed, declaration or interaction, mighty or miniscule, that resides in the…