Hemingway wasn't a natural, either.
My mind is soft today, not like oatmeal but like sand, slippery mismatched thoughts rubbing together chaotically as they briefly collide and then carry on their way. They are all unique in their structure and origin, yet I fail to parse them as they glide casually past, catching finally in the small crevices between my toes to be tracked through the house, one tiny idea at a time.

I fear sleep, eight long hours in which precious musings can arise unbidden and escape unnoticed.