I wrote about Martin Luther King, about Katrina, about my aunt’s coffin floating in the floodwaters.

I wrote about kaleidescopes, broadcloth, and the eternal conversation.

I mixed metaphors and messages. I tried condensation, I tried elaboration.

I quoted Lady MacBeth, and I looked up the word ‘baste’.

I have nothing to show for all that. None of what I wrote made much sense, and the words were not beautiful enough to float the meaningless content.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll be more in touch. Today I looked within and could not open the truth jar. The label read: ‘Hermetically Sealed For Your Protection!’