Mentally fatigued, the brain and the fingers are not what they should be. Carry on I must, write to write, that just seems right. No subject, no real meaning behind the words tonight. Perhaps this is an act of futility. Perhaps I am typing in vain, writing to ease the pain. Perhaps I typed that last sentence because I like the way it sounds. Perhaps I am in a good place. Perhaps I am content. Perhaps I am at a place where I might want to scream my joy for all the world to hear. Perhaps I have yet to find the right words to accompany that near primal scream. Perhaps, perhaps.