at espresso on windsor, the one no one is ever at and will probably be closed with my luck any minute now, just as i'm getting used to the idea that this will be my temporary summer office and i get an email that tells me my final report of the year is due on wednesday and, gee, maybe you could have said a little something about that before now more than "oh can you write up a paragraph about this/that sometime?" when meanwhile i have 17k things in the queue and am just starting to find my footing with my dissertation again...

and the bright lights flash and the dreams come to me as if trailers for some upcoming film and i dream that you pull me through the veil but i'm not mormon, we're not mormon and everything seems to move so fast and remember all the questions about how i could be so sure about a diagnosis for you and i laughed inside because no one could really know unless they've walked the path as well but how could you take my word for it when revealing it would mean telling you about hammers and you'd walk away thinking that it was my own desire to see myself in the world.

and the dissertation begins to look like a screenplay as the chunks of words come spewing out at a speed so fast that i'm afraid that if i don't keep writing as quickly as i can they'll be gone again, locked up again...hidden from sight, from your view...frustratingly part of a mind that must remain locked for fear i do something too inspired but not in a good way and i said to you, i said that i'd originally planned to write my dissertation about the creativity that lay within the impaired, the different...and you said that i was.