I gnaw and gnaw on bones the way I pick and pick at scabs and scratch and scratch my head. As if something will, must, has to eventually give way and lead me forth into another frame. If I lived in a cave I'd be hitting my head against the stone repeatedly. If I lived on a tree I'd be clawing at its bark. On a boat I'd be mostly drowsy or staring soulfully at something or the other, boats make me act that way. Living as I do in my room, the only thing I have is walls and must therefore make do with propping my legs up against them, head on floor, eyes on window, mind on other things, and listen to whatever. At this moment and in this temper I am willing to bet more than my life on the conviction that going out into the world is overrated. Tomorrow, though. We'll get to that when we get to that.