There are times when nothing fits and nothing comes to mind. Nothing is tangible and hanging from from the ceiling, or hovering over head like the personal storm cloud seen only in cartoons, waiting to rain, changing my individual barometric pressure, slowly, but steadily squeezing, pressing. It is so present it's almost solid, yet also amorphous and airy. The moment I try to reach out and take hold of it, the mass becomes transparent, dodging. Its dissipation is so quick that I can't be sure it was ever as tangible as I thought. Then, it returns, oozing, condensing and pressing once more. To mark its presence is to feel its full effect, but to pin it down is to realize it is an illusion, self-imposed and inescapable.