In Praise of the Unformed Thought I Sing

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In praise of the unformed thought I sing.

In praise of its black abyss of potential. In praise of the weakness that keeps me from lifting its trusses too quickly. In praise of the elbow grease I must apply, the cells that must reproduce and die in me, the life I must spend to see it flower. In praise of the long, slow ache of its void.

In praise of the single movement that brings me one milimeter closer to the truth I sing.