Notebooks
The chickenscratch that covers the pages of my corporeal notebooks is barely readable, my words collapse into one another, and i barely make an effort to separate my thoughts into coherent paragraphs. i drone on interminately about what i've read, what i've seen, what is unfolding in the world, until i am rudely interrupted by the final page of the notebook, and then, i begin again.
Lucky for me, on a screen, my handwriting is ameliorated by readable fonts, my thoughts are separated neatly into files organised by subject, but the incoherence, i fear, persists.