In which I find myself wondering if any Pickers will come and take my things away — if I ask nicely.
In which I alternate between my love of music, and vent about my frustrations in managing it.
In which I acknowledge time’s passage, and consider how it can be done differently.
in which nothing matters, yet everything felt like it did
In which I consider my reactions to criticism, and try to plan to understand them rationally, and then plan to understand how that’s probably going to fall victim to self-criticism.