The essay comes in on the tides. It's broken and pieces of it drift along the shore. Until it's paraphrasable, don't call it an idea. Call it marjoram, or margarine, or Marjorie, Murmur some essentialist jargon in its ear.
It's messy, the command center. They're insisting the check is for me But I didn't put in for anything. I am huddled In the corner, breathing shallow, Waiting for the airplanes to go back wherever.