You wake and have plans. Sure you do. You write pages of words that would feel like nothing if you didn't know better. Quit your whining, you tell yourself. In the workshop, you apply another coat of poly to a project and wash the brush in thinner. The laundry tub could do with a bit of a scrub. You scrub it but just a bit. You go upstairs thinking you might go for a run. But the cat insists you pick her up. She purrs. You scratching that purring cat. Summer heat is rising. Bugs whir like tiny machines. You move in and out of the world, the whir and purr bringing on a trance. Then the cat has had enough of you. She jumps down. You pull on running shorts and shirt. You take yourself out into the heat, stand in the driveway, the world before you. Infinite choices of direction and distance. The map of who you are and might be. You stand, trying to choose right or left, as if it matters. As if anything matters other than putting a foot forward, bringing the other along, and so on and so forth. You can have your plans, write your words, coat a project in poly, hold the cat while she'll let you, and stand in the driveway forever, but it's getting so very hot, the world is moving on with or without you. Maybe just go. No, really. Go.