Waken and rise! Some days the joints feel so rusty it's as if one is immobilized. "Slow down, slow down!" They cry and so one grinds to a halt. Then that part of the mind intimates reassurances too. "There's always tomorrow." It suggests.

Drawing, a mundane portrait: tired in the wake of an oddly long day and unrelenting day, or so it feels, put pencil to paper and think while the hand and eye are busy. Among the thoughts, one that spark back last night's dreams. Finally too weary, thoughts of that fleeting dream remembrance and of drawing Violet Evergarden, as well as other things–for there is a strange quiet thought one can engage in while drawing, like coming in to skim a peaceful surface where the winds up above ordinarily make things turbulent–and the urge to bed is put to rest as the pencil is laid down once again, where it will sit until tomorrow (although who can say what tomorrow will bring?). Out comes this babble, out go the lights. Slink and fall into dreamworld.

And therefrom, from a land without rulers (the other kind), came graphite babble.