Your pen aims for the precise line and your hand keeps drifting to the margin, where the sentence turns to image without asking. The exact thought of Mercury faces the imagination of Neptune across the axis, each seeping or sharpening against the other. Sharpen the point and you bore yourself stiff. Let it drift and a voice docks you for the blur. So you cannot hold one steady writing voice, and some days you reread a page and cannot tell which of you signed it. Stop judging one half through the other half eye. Some pages belong to the surgeon. Some belong to the dream. Both are real work.