How will I ever write books if I never encounter the page? Why do I repel the practice? Can my early twenties be salvaged? Quickly before the quarter century locks into position and youth spins independently of me?

It’ll happen too soon. I’m afraid losing youth. I’ve always been an adult but I’m flailing for childhood now. I’ve gotta get outside myself, finally and I mustn’t be afraid of the resulting consequences. Instead I’ve got to embrace them. Many arms of trance. Many eyes at once. Many words on pages, milky pages in the three A.M. and the seven thirty. Many bottles decorked and lipped and taken whole (some halved). One particular blend of tea and one place to settle into. One stronger back and slinking cat and two lids finite in their cover.