In which I lament my dull response to editing, and wish that I would remember the things I will tell myself in the future.
In which I try to examine what it is I want from my imagination, and the shared illusion with others.
In which I try to dissect my dissection of a recipe to find a recipe for dissecting everything.
In which I explore the difficulty of sharing.
In which I struggle to find the point of view to talk about finding a point of view to explain and describe a world.