Is every prose poem a stream of consciousness, or just this one? And do all streams of consciousness really just flow in a big circle back to talking about consciousness and/or writing about consciousness, or anyway being conscious of the fact that you’re writing, which is damn near writing about consciousness, because the written word is really just consciousness commodified and collected on paper, or screen, or wherever it happens to be, in the same way playing the piano is really just music commodified or collected or something. There’s a word here that means what I’m trying to say, but I can’t think of it just now, and I hate when I can’t think of words because it’s like a part of my brain is malfunctioning. That happens probably a lot more often than I care to admit, my brain malfunctioning, and words not coming to the top of my head when I want them to come out of the top of my head is really just some kind of malfunctioning byproduct. I’m like the top-of-the-headless horseman when it comes to words and remembering them. If this weren’t stream of consciousness, I’d stop to think of the word. Probably stop for a long time, and by the end of it, I’d have found the word, but it wouldn’t seem quite right. It would still seem like there was a word out there just a little bit better than the one I’d finally remembered, and I would still be unsatisfied, dreaming of a word that was just a little more perfect like some kind of deja vu for words.