I don't understand the impulses I feel. Someone turns a faucet on and the words type themselves. I take full responsibility but I am not just a vessel, a funnel that the words pour through. Before I could clasp my hands together, they dived onto the keyboard. Before I could yank my hands away, they committed mutiny. I feel the words have betrayed me and my hands have been their secret aides. And this betrayal has ruined everything. My hands have pushed these words out and they were too much, too soon. Too serious, too emotional. Too presumptuous.
I have assumed. I do not know.