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Nearly midnight, and plumbing the page again like a vacant desperado, believing I can coax salvation enough to draw near; or at least a reminder that this scrawl is evidence that synapses still fire, can still blaze despite the random act of interpretation lying prostrate, suspect, dangling like an afterthought from the tip of my tongue. Because there always seems to be a wait (and a weight) before something of significance could ever really roil up, could ever mean that was what I meant to say, meant to speak into the universe— and into your eyes, convinced it was enough. Musing by Darrell Rohling contact the author at djrohling@aol.com