Often enough, I am so paralyzed by languor that I can barely cultivate the organic forms into which my thoughts may settle. I begin to wonder if others too are afflicted by this weakness of the mind. What of those glorified writers whom write all their lives; their pens never ceasing in its passionate pursuit of clarity? Were there ever days where Kierkegaard fumbled at every juncture of his dialectic or Nabokov at every opportunity to construct a metaphor? How heavy the heart rests on occasions like these. My thoughts are struggling to find form and yet I cannot amply express anything.