Last night in a dream, I was asked to multiply five hundred and ten by fifteen. Waiting at me with a blank stare, I threw seven thousand six hundred and fifty back at him, intonating the syllables with a small sneer. His own son could not do multiplication as he stood beside me drooping from the weight of shame. Feeling him falling beside me, I had to regret passing the answer though my mouth with upturned corners.

The grass outside lulls me with a damp bright green of morning dew, porch stairs stained a shade darker under that same blanket of moisture. Cutting bruised portions from apples over the edge of the steps, peeling to cut into a small pan of boiling cherry juice. Knowing without understanding why a warm breakfast is right, not bothering to probe further.

I want things and I do not want them. A wish placement of the world sifts through my head, one which I would feel less satisfied when fullfilled than savoring the construct in my fancy. It seems my reflex to want, yet treasure what is given in place, growing a sense of deep balance coarsing through things. A tendancy for people to fight from both ends naturally, we would feel defeated if absent a sense of loss. A reliance on some to commit atrocity and others to topple, simply slip into the framework to do what you must understanding this. Further your fight under the strain of no hope, even that is crucial.

The thick and slow thoughts of morning roll in this way, washing over in a slow motion beyond power to stop, the creeping advance. Sun still a harsh medium for my eyes, it is time to turn back inside for finding what hours ahead will deliver. Clarity is slowly receding from my grasp again.
