Where does one belong? And to whom? And with whom? Apart from one 32-year-old 6-foot certainty, everything seems to be mad whirlwind. Whose pathetic idea was it to grow up?
Each new revealed expectation is like a three or four or six of spades added to a teetering, fragile house of cards. Spades ought to be for graves, not houses!
So much time in such a little space! I’m tackling life as a filigree piece, not as a checklist. Dear world, please just let me be that way!