There's a comfort in tidying-up. Grab a broom and just sweep. Or any of my 5-minute room pick-ups. Satisfaction. Satisfaction has many forms.

And now, like right now, I feel as though my head has been emptied out on my floor like an old handbag. The ole' handbag shuffle. But I look at all of it sprawled out on the floor and it's quite the mess.

Maybe if I categorize?

Garbage here. Lips. Receipts. Creams. How'd I get so many chapsticks? Just look at it all. Piles.

Climbing as if a science baking-soda/peroxide experiment was overdone. Over thought. Overdone.

Junk. Piles.

My head today.