In which the pressure in my mind has overcome the pressure in my art.
In which I seek a beginning, only to find it somewhere near the middle, and then follow it back to another beginning.
In which I muse about the journey by staring at where I am, and ultimately never conclude.
In which I attempt to express how important the craft of words is to me, and how it’s use as a tool is more important than its use as a ruler.
In which I remove the facade I’ve built up for my current state of being, just to see if it was real, and then discover that none of them are real anyway, so I might as well just pick one of the masks I feel flatters my current desired state.