Writing is a tonic that cures

What ails you, that in doses daily taken cures one of the ills of misapplied vengeance or awkward silences or forgotten deadlines or ill-timed exchanges.  So here it is, a chance to unload from the supercomputer the latest glut of infrmation, to free the wires for better transmission, at least.  It is raining, that goes without saying, and it smells fully of fall, of the deep, heavy wet air that finally flows in, erasing once and for all the last crisp twinges of optimisim left over from fall.  Settle in, now, as we dig towards a deeper furrow, leading toward the velvet tank of winter.  Can there be enough clothign to cover over the daily worries, to block out the leaching cold?  Maybe it just means fixing the heater so that getting out of bed is not a challenge in and of itself.  It means everything is ready in the pre-dawn dark, waiting to step out into the new day.  Put into place before, the new routine can make sense, can fit into the already cluttered space of my mind.  At times, this all becomes babble about food, or better yet, a babel of food, an echo chamber of tastes and sights and sounds that, avoiding anarchy and incoherence, draws together again to form a union of all these things, a loving embrace of lifes daily drive against the seeping edges despair.