can you hear the horses coming?

In a conversation I was having with a friend recently I described my emotional sense of self as being "like a cell waiting through osmosis" and I thought that that line was a lovely bit of unexpected poetry, but I had no where to put it. That happens sometimes. I had a snatch of something-"and all your colored horses come crashing to the ground"- rolling around in my head for years until it found its place. Writing's funny that way.

Thesis watch: I'd like to say it's done, but it's not.

Book rec: Lowboy by John Wray

Cubbie Watch: Yeah, I'm watching.