The notebook wants precision and your hand drifts to the margin, where the word turns to dream without asking. Mercury squares Neptune, exact thought dragging at right angles to a current that dissolves every outline. Try to be precise and you go bored. Let it loose and the vagueness shames you. You paid in years of writing where you never knew if you were the analyst or the poet. The grind handed you the freedom not to choose. Some pages belong on the chalkboard, some belong in the mist. Your worth is the moving between them with no sense of betraying either. The double tongue you ended up with, most people never get.
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