o mercurius

I cannot write. I am so scattered that I cannot collect my pieces long enough to be coherent. Maybe there is something in that. Like drops of mercury, for a longish moment, it seems as if I have it, it is in my grip, i see it whole. I start to pour it into a vial and it spills and disintegrates again into such small spheres that I cannot gather them all. I cannot. It is lost. I cannot write enough. Will it never be enough or will I never know when it’s enough? The drop has fallen and shattered into minute wholenesses. I don’t know where it is and I want it. I want every little particle. And so go on my days and so they end.