An extended feeling of dot dot dot. Dirty blue and soundless ticking. The only way out is through, or so they say. So I get to work, try to recapture some of the old me. The me that always wanted to make something real and beautiful, who gave up before anything started and somehow found herself on a computer all day, trying to find a million ways to tell you this is good shit when I haven’t even tried it. Who am I but the sum of all my decisions? All in all, they worked out pretty okay. Three cats and a home I own. The best dessert I’ve ever had, and then again at: a campground in Washington, New York City, the island, Shanghai, and the fancy place ten minutes away. But I’m still looking at a sky full of stars, holding out on making a wish in case I’ve already used all of mine just to escape. When the next paragraph starts, will I be left behind? A brief mention in passing. “When I was your age.” I go to the art store, pick up some pencil crayons because it’s 80 colours for under $50 and I’ve always hated the mess of paint. A year later I am on my hands and knees in paint-splattered clothes. Not a prayer, but the work of art. Old me wanted shortcuts. Now I write a line, and then another, and then I wait.