This writing is that warm place under the covers. This writing is the moment you go from putting in the relationship counseling hours and dates and self-help gurus to walk in on them with, well, the Guru: This is the second you move from disbelief to laughter. The next bottle. This is when what you believed unwavering wavers, the sure bet you’d place your life on that takes your life, when heroes of your childhood turn out to be human beings. This is the part of your nightmare where you realize you are in a nightmare. Dragons in Merrickville, come on, I wonder if I can fly. This is when you walk through the ashes of a place that you believed the root of Who I Am- whatever that meant- when maybe it was just a place you had slept: Maybe it was just a house. Maybe, if it had influenced that Who I Am thing, you could rewrite yourself- paint over the shitty painting, hang it on another nail- even after the whole production of your personality thing was probably finished. This is the writing that describes you using ash to streak shoes black, the story that forgets your story to describe a house.