I used to want to write stories for people. A gift, I thought. Something meaningful. The most honest expression I have besides the ‘I care’s and ‘I love you’s. Something that took effort, and required me to use my time for someone other than myself. The purity of creation for someone else.

Now I can’t bring myself to bother. I snapped in that sense and had to start again. No stories, I think. Nothing that gives the impression that I care.

Me, well-aged red wine, a purple wool scarf to model and dance around with in gratitude—that’s all I’ll give.