Filling page after page with half-thoughts is both an affront to writing and essential to the practice of it. It takes time to cook up something good, and sometimes we have it, sometimes we don’t. What spooks me is a certain flatness, apathy, lethargy, whereby the impulse to pursue an idea or sensation or line of thinking is weak, and the corresponding motivation to slide down another rabbit hole is almost nonexistent. Some, surely, would call this “depression,” and though I might be inclined to debate, I would not go so far as to deny the applicability of that term. I try so hard to choose happiness, I’d protest, every moment of every fucking day I try to choose it like it’s the daily fucking chef’s special but I sometimes fail to see how it stands out from the rest of the menu and order a perturbation omelette and a coffee and wait for inspiration to return from wherever it goes when I go missing.