Read a new-to-me short story by Alice Munro this afternoon, and now I'm just going to sit here in the dark, my phone on its last bar, and think about how far I am from the level of literary control I need to say everything, everything I still have any ache in me left to say.

(It was "Wenlock Edge". Some writers can just cut you to the quick on the thin veneer of civil society we all move within, you know?)