Lines extending past the plane of off-white infinity, spaces waiting patiently for ink and genius--or at least the pencil marks of a sub[lime]conscious. The pressure of instrument against opportunity, matched only by the pressure of focus against feeling. The unreality of having everything to say and no way of saying it. Questions arise with suspicious contempt, but the questions don't stifle so much as engage--micro-opportunities to pry the facets of self from evasion's trembling grip. Knowing that you don't know then remembering that you can--a peregrination of discovery that playfully mocks altruistic pilgrimage. Clenched fingers recoil with every proclamation of precision or expression of certainty. What the pressure cannot stand is a fulfilled relaxation, a mind overflowing with exactness, confidence, clarity. Knowing that you can't know what you don't know and that you are more than capable of attaining it all--the method, the content, the style. Celebrate what is/ought and what will/should.

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