Abandoning another attempt at poetry, she sinks into a place of inner frustration, contemplating the advantages of being down, for what has crashed to the linoleum must rise to the ceiling, says the yo-yo law of gravity. Down works sympathetically with up, toying with the momentum of her emotions in this sudden state of vocabulary depletion. She thinks this instance of down could be her final destination, never to dwindle up toward the high mindset of triumphant literary accomplishment. Perhaps, she will sink even lower, down to depths where complete sentence structures become stagnant, and eclipsed thoughts shudder without fulfillment. These tiresome ideas dissipate as the fluidity of her prose begins again, one word connecting itself to the next to form notions she can comprehend in the onset of light. To find it once again, and continue the forces, which bring up and down together, creates balance in her life. She carries on writing, remembering the prior blankness when she thinks to stop and recall when time stood still in the night.