Catharsis, today. Rain, tomorrow. Bright auroras in the skies at five pee em.

Sometimes, the clicks of a keyboard are my catharsis; they are my punching bags, my passions, my feathered pillows and my bruised knuckles. I type, and things burst out by themselves from the tips of my fingers, like inspector gadget, I think, meters and miles of ribbony strands, stretching out.

Something comes out and I look away but my fingers are still crawling and scuttling on the keyboard like stationary crabs. I stare and they stop, deer in headlights, then I sag my head and they start up again with the hum of a familiar motor, churning and grinding. Someone walks in behind me and taps me on the shoulder. I look back, hoping. No, only Andy. Someone calls me and pulls my attention to blinking red light. I lift it up, wondering. No, only Q, or John or Clara or Colin.

Someone picks up a fallen leaf, from afar, and I squint, hoping. This time I'm not sure. I pick one up myself, and it's like a hand, five outstretched fingers, the yellow coming from within, the green pushed to the brink of desperation at the edges. Exploding, I think, and she nods and takes it from me. I take it back. She snatches it again, laughing, and we end up in a scuffle, both of us conscious somewhere in the back of our minds of the deliberate physical contact we are trying to make. Silence descends suddenly and we jump apart and look at each other, the leaf fluttering down quietly between us.

You have sweat on your nose, after one month and four weeks of staring. I am reminded of when I fell, staring at a picture of her with the hazy sun behind and lazy wisps of hair floating around like a halo, not smiling, squinting at the camera, omniscient multicolored multifaceted laugh-out-loud like-to-talk love-to-listen, shearing holes in the sky, piercing through the eclectic sources that I had maintaining my temporary freedom from. Attachment from. To whirl it around myself was good, but to feel someone else touch and feel it was even better.

These things come across as being obvious. A spectator above, I see all but never see anything else. I should, could, but doubts play in my mind like shadows of leaves on quiet sunday mornings, on grass and asphalt and uncombed hair. Hair-thin strands of possibilities dance around, and my thoughts chase themselves around and around until everything combusts spontaneously like a cartoon scuffle, rolling around like a hairball of condensed fury. Just add water and it pops up and makes you mad. They wear each other out, and both thoughts are exhausted and I am left with myself only, wondering where to go. Yes or no? Words need more working. Sometimes the words come out haltingly, tripping over obstacles on the way and I can't say what I want to say.

Sometimes, though, the sky opens up with a cerulean blue and a bright orange, terrible things, wonderful things and thoughts get communicated like cucumbers. Her picture of a cucumber flits over my mind, and I keep wondering how brush strokes and a single image can be so humorous. I imagine her hands like closed mouths; quiet, but smiling and laughing silently, shaking in inaudible mirth with pearly tears tumbling down, and down.