He has class tonight, and suddenly he’s more eager to teach than on days where he does get 6-7 hours of sleep night prior. He notes what’s on his mind, exactly and not exactly what’s present in his thinking.
The office starts to calm. The voices lower and fade in intensity, but his intensity can only compound and compound further in words and complexities, or what he thinks are complexities. The essay idea forward and forward further in his chair, right where he is. There’s no lack, of anything, at all. Like he’s before thought and like his mother has so many times told him with his writing, everything he needs to write about is right in front of him. “You have enough to right about right where you are.” Mom said. She was referencing his life as a father, but Mike takes such sight and applies and threads it into other scenes, the one currently right now as he types at his desk. He’s found an antibody, a compositional vaccine.