reassembled.

It's late, my house smells like pancakes and my hands smell like aftershave...I need to sleep but it likes to play hard to get...

something just outside of the side on the adjacent angled curve, toward infinity or some horizontal vanishing point, no matter how far or fast you run you never seem to be able to reach that horizon or map that adjacent angle, it tangles up and you’re tripping over it…but you’re tripping over your own feet, yourself, you are that angle and the curve is your frustration… you push as hard as you can but you’re applying the pressure incorrectly with too deft a hand the accuracy is out because the harder you push the deeper you go; you are pushing yourself down instead of out, in instead of over, futher in instead of beyond…No elevation to alleviate the anguished agonising miscalculation. Pure reason within reach, but ephemeral only, like a refreshing effervescent bubbled beverage…feather-light countenance of corresponding collaborators, not to cheat yourself of the prize, to grasp it rather that let it languish above your outstretched arms; you could reach but there is some subconscious factor in play that you are deliberately ignoring, a wall you’ve built to protect your treasure from yourself…and another wall you’ve built around the reason and yet another around the hammer so you’ll have more trouble disassembling them, one by one…