the window has frosted over with the shape of my breath and i think of the way we are writing stories all the time, with the way that we have tripped and stumbled, with the lifting of our skin. added up, we are all the tiny little pieces of ourselves that have fallen, that are floating through the room, that are mixing with all the other pieces of living, the layer they leave on surfaces. we can see everything that has come to this, that has led us to this place and the way it piles up on itself. draw in the past with our fingers, make a picture of what we think it might look like. how, then, can we think we are alone in this? how then are we separate? because everything is blended with everything else, in the end.