There is always too much to write. And too much to read. And too much to make. And too much to feel.

Everything demands to be heard now. And felt now. And thought about now. And it feels as if everything that I can't fit into this hopelessly infinitesimal slice of time called now screams at me of injustice, of being ignored, of being stolen from their deserved chance at skewing ever so slightly who I am in the moment after now.