It feels quite like butterflies in the stomach, only that the butterflies have moved upwards, trying to burst out from my ribcage, or render the entire body airborne to move somewhere.

Maybe it's just dreary to sit and ponder upon four walls. Maybe I'm going a little crazy.

I was thinking about the possibility of inventing a machine that could type out my thoughts as I think them. Ah, the ease of prose writing. No more hunting around for a pen or making pouty faces at my dad when he hogs the computer, or trying to distract my mom with something else when I'm typing. It's a wonder I can still think and create with so much simultaneous activity around.

Which is why my best verses are written in my head at night when I gaze at the dark ceiling or flopping my stuffed animal around trying to make sense of this restlessness I feel.

And why this entry is meandering nonsense, because I can't remember what I was writing in my head the night before.