We try to clean up and organize our thoughts when we express them so others can understand us and like us and follow our trains of thought, but in our own minds we don’t need to explain. And sometimes if we can write only purely what we’re thinking, if the mash and muddle of the confusion behind our lids could land on a page like bird bone black twigs light as pepper, they could fall into miniature runes, messages from the gods or the jungle or the fairy dust, and we cringe at pretension and vacillate between privacy and knowing trusting hubristically that the words will be read. There is no escaping anymore. That is the real problem. The reader is always there even if she’s at a distance meaning in the future, after it’s all cleaned up for her, the dross cut out, the spelling and typing tidied up.