Life is a series of interruptions. I have a few ideas rattling in the junk drawer, but no time to bolt them together into anything resembling a usable form. Nothing terribly exciting keeps me from writing. Events merely jostle my elbow when I try to settle for long enough to form long, coherent thoughts.
I have a tendency to exist at several points in time at any given moment. Not all of them are pleasant, but all of them are true, to the best of my knowledge. The ones we call the past cannot be altered, but can be perceived differently as our own experience grows. The present becomes like a hand of cards from a constantly-shuffled pack. Only the top card is now, but the others affect the value one gives to the whole hand which is the experience of now.
At times, the shuffling is so rapid, the rise of the black cards so frequent, that I do not try to finish more than what is set in front of me. Quiet functionality will suffice.