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Six-percent innate matter, words I can’t remove from my mind.

I imagine if there’s any truth to this statement the number would be 

closer to 92—ninety-two percent innate matter bubbling around our

insides. And really, I feel it’s more like ninety-eight, but I’m still an optimist these days. The kind of person who doesn’t wholesomely believe we are the sum of our biologic makings, for many of us never run into the problems these conditions present until we’re on our latter half of the downhill trek. But for some of us, we’ve just gotten into the groove. Just took step onto a plateau from where we can look out and see we’ve approached line-of-sight view with the clouds. By now we’ve developed a sense of our strides and when to reexamine the path for increased efficiency as we continue climbing—and things should get easier. A few weeks ago—or a fragmented lifetime ago, it's been a long January—I’m sitting mid-day in my car, which is sitting in a shopping mall parking lot, and the sky is darker than a gray crayon; but if someone stopped by, tapped on my window, and told me they colored in the sky this morning and that it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, I’d accept it as true.

Currently, I’m eating freshly ground peanut-butter with the only utensil I have on hand—my finger, and Courtney Barnett’s, “Nameless, Faceless” is absorbing all surrounding space,

and this momentary lapse feels worthy of approximately ten seconds of scene in a Coen brother’s film.

Perhaps they will work their magic and bring these moments to life.