Friday... fallow or fertile?

The morning begins with titles floating like single leaves or bits of branches down a stream; some parts of the riverine flow are rapids, some are quiet near banks. For the former, I try and catch them but they often move swiftly out of reach, and soon disappear. For the latter, I take them in hand and bend in consideration for thoughtful moments. "Friday's fear of falling?" Hmm... no, not quite. "A fillip of Friday flakiness?" Eh, meh. I choose the one, eventually, and often enough it stays; on rare occasions, the title changes sometime during the day, or deep into the night, when the true shape of the hours has revealed itself. Solipsism is a curse and a blessing. The latter because, paradoxically, it instantiates focus: sit. Put hindquarters on chair. Face the blank page. Meditate. Write. But the former because, well.. it makes things too recursive, meta, self-indulgent. Just like this token flow at the moment. ::chuckle:: Why waste precious time on fleeting notions? Why spend the…