The pattern continues. A rephrasing, more explicit, of a previous thought.

Around 7pm, I am seized by mania. I can barely keep myself from sprinting down the street. My clockwork head is pressed to the ground, is rushing past in hurried conversation with ghosts. My rag of a body is whipped through the sky. My hands shake, my vision blurs. There are so many words they almost choke me. The miracle knowledge that blood pumps through my veins overwhelms me. I feel a desperate and moral obligation to contribute all I can, to pour myself into the world.

By 9:30, I’m a pile of ash. A bus stop garbage can. A thick ink that seeps its way into telephones, crawls out the other side in a keening whine. Sometimes something intervenes: a book, a body, the cloying taste of sleep. Sometimes not.

By now, at least, I have learned to let the waves pass.