Oh boy.

There it is. I was almost anticipating it. But now that its here, I know I couldn’t have anticipated what it really feels like. Every sentence of my own words splits like fresh twigs into thought like splinters, each of which deserve their own space and their own time to grow, mature, and be written. I’m growing ideas like a plant whose clippings grow a whole new plant of its own.

From now on I’m building a weapon. Made of these plants.

Each time I write I sharpen my tool. When it is sharp I will use it. When it dulls, I will sharpen it again.