My tender brain. Working it too hard. Editing, rewriting, rethinking, looking things up, throwing things out, starting things over, where I can. And not just work, but (yawn) my life, that bigger thing I publish. What new ground can I break in that spent metaphor? None. But as I say, my brain hurts. One of those headaches forming behind my eyes, threatening to flower. Took a nap tonight. Hoped to lick it in the pillow, mulch it under, come back fresh by midnight. Plant a little something hundred-wordy: a fruiting tree, a vine. Something to feed me later.