I’m essaying essay again, and, I say, it’s not easy. I sway and sashay between knowing and no no, and oh, forget it. Foregoing knowing for shoving shovels of details, the retail of retelling, but what am I selling? I start with specifics and go on and on in hope the whatnot will give way to some what: a quest, a question that reveals itself in the veils. Or me. Oh me. Or you. The ideal “we” of the “in this together,” but I’m stuck on the weather. Whither from the wind and wet? Onward ot eht egde edge the to to the edge. Or start again. I want to write about what I’m writing about, but why? I can’t say. And so I can’t say. Oh, essay. I why. I try. I flail and flail again.