my mind is perpetually obsessing over the mundane everyday things; things over which I have no control; the things that just happen, the actions of others, the choices made. I feel sometimes like an intruder on my own life but maybe if that were true things would be simple; as it stands now I feel incapable of making even the most basic of decisions, always stumbling over myself, my words, my environment. Caught up in ideas and plans so much more delicious in their non-existence; to make them real would be to spoil the anticipation, the feeling of possibility so nearly sexual in its persistence.

Just now, I forgot where the comma key was.