I gotta get it in check. I want to wring my neck. Compulsivity. There’s an animal that lives within me, a creature of habit, keeps its paws on the scales of my psyche; id on the one side, super ego on the other. Compulsivity. Count to ten and then back again. A steady hand is a trusted fried. It crawls through time and heredity where history comes alive. On the fringe. On the fringe of the spare time society. Anxiety. Barely holding on. Wringing fingers to the bone. You rang the bell but I hid upstairs, tossing and turning alone. Anxiety. Waking up with a frightened memory of the common thread through all that imagery. It’s rolled up tight to form a single line, it’s got all of everything wrapped inside. Time's in circles; always on repeat. Like a set of waves, each one unique, but from the beach, they’re like a picture, frozen & uniform: shot from a distance to capture the moment in time. There’s a halo of angles blurring the sea with the sky. The plan is to dip after midnight. And hope to reach town by first light. Impulsivity. Always facing forward. Focused on the future. Let the winds transfix my attention, they’re always blowing. Impulsivity.