wandering clouds and rain

Endless amounts of coffee framed by wooden tables and concentrating on the characters and the words, inscribed through the directions of thought out there in sincerity somewhere, striving for a sort of upright feeling I might figure out, some kind of curious self-congratulatory explanation or maybe an act that corresponds with a thought in a real way, as much as I can tell, for what it is worth. And yet the anxiety out there somewhere, the curving features of numinous wanderings, the acts and the repetitions, the innate setup of situations and people, decisions that make something happen, a decision to be somewhere, or not to be somewhere, a decision reinforced somehow with good thought and feeling, energy in positive form. One can drive all night trying to get somewhere and never get there, but after a while there has to be something done between here and there regardless, and a hope of some kind, of some kind of recognition in the form that appears with itself in an idea of the kind of reality, or the kind of force of the actual and now somewhere, some kind of idea where things are good enough, that things change, people remain, and the rivers keep on flowing somewhere and that it can all come around into the kind of simplicity that I see, or at least think about and think is right.