What passes for a day

I'm not much good at setting tasks for myself; too often, I wander, let myself be diverted (think a trickle of water). I often envy those who write directly (in the way that puddles dream of the sea). But in spite of that (or because), I sometimes pause: The world falls together in strange ways for me, and what passes for intuition is not so much a flash and certainly not anything as steady as a light, but something chanced, a furtive gleam.