Strained eyes, in that sense even, as though they've passed through a sieve and been pieced back together. Topped off by a thin cold layer of dulled and dulling pain. Staring at a blank white screen all day, this is what it does to you.
One thousand two thousand three thousand four, six thousand eight thousand ten thousand more.
The idea is there, there are fragments. But how best to start? Perhaps just to get the start started would be best. Plot each one of these fragments out, go in between, start to connect them. Draw connections, draw conclusions, put down the bug, make it something more. Pull or push out the idea by any means necessary, breathe some life into it because it's doing nobody any good where it is now.
Or is it? Thousands and thousands and thousands.
Some ideas should remain ideas. Some ideas are always there telling us to keep going. Some sit there, not collecting dust, but living their own sheltered lives, gathering mythos. Yes. Some ideas mustn't be disturbed.
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