I walk out after a prolonged shower and take note of the rough texture of my hands. It feels like bark. It sounds like traffic in the morning. The living room is gray as nineteenth century European literature. I stand in the kitchen and wait for the water to come to a boil. A swig of mineral water begins me. When I sit to take in the light of the morning gray and listen to music I consider the end of another year and my relative position in time. I think of the fights yet to take place and the goals yet to meet. I take stock of my crutches and their value. What I think of then is domestic lives and your choice of swimsuit. Life as a child; as an adolescent; as the torn mind which has pushed through the branches and looked down at the Earth to look for something more than incessant fantasy. The tactile memories linger and it feeds me. The fuel is memory but my momentum is lost.