I have so many words in me right now that they are getting in a bunch trying fight their way out. One thought leaps in and then connects me to another thought which in turn has me on another tangent. If I don't start writing them down I'm sure I will explode, or even implode, I don't know which I would prefer.
Each day I wake up in awe of where I am and what I'm doing. The same thing over and over and over. The aluminum stovetop percolator is showing evidence of wear from my tired hand holding the wooden handle every morning. EVERY damn morning. The little bubble of green glass, where I watch the coffee pop up and plop back down, falls out when I set the pot. Does it want to escape, too?