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Tantric Yoga

Annoyed. Not at any one: generally irritable.

I tell myself that acquisition of patience, the suspension between desire and attainment, is in itself the goal. Like Tantric Yoga. 

My cursor wings away. I hover the mouse, awaiting the hand's return, ever reaching but never touching. Even the dreaded "Page(s) unresponsive" is ... unresponsive, with invitation neither to kill it (probably a good thing), nor to wait. Seeking to own the abstract, absent art in a gallery full of negative space.

This will improve me.

The altar before an inscrutable, elusive deity laid with my offering of electrons, gone before I settle them amongst all the marigolds. Freckles carried off by improbable cheetahs in the temple of Isis. I could calculate obeisance' s mass only, not position, having changed things with my glance. 

Browser relaunched. A frisson of smokey friction.

Focus.

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