and then our exile

Now early in the morning-time, and i find i am emptied. Not of things to say, or even of things which appear profound, just that in mirror-image these things seem to return and return again to pinch at my shadow, that my fear of prolixity be piqued and stimulated to despair. It is not that i am physically unwell, but rather "heavy", my sheltered paradigm--shelter not of environment but standard--attempts to grow together again, and finds the doing wracked-through with twinges. I would borrow, that "ahead lies pain, and behind only pain", but for fear of undoing the laces of my now-empirical freedom, that i would stand asham'ed and alone. Respite, fearsome respite.