Windblown

The early morning is the only guaranteed (well, relatively) quiet time for reflection and collection of thoughts.

Collecting thoughts. That, my friends, is the name of the game for me. I gather them and organize them, stacking them like a neat pile of papers, and then, as if a strong wind has come along, they are strewn everywhere around me. I run headlong, chasing after them. Contemplations scatter, float, drift away in all directions.

Ah. The morning hour faithfully arrives. I recollect, I reconsider, and I stack them once again.

Could this be a windless day? Please?