I’m holding back, and I don’t know why. At the beginning, where I say that I don’t have time for this, I then frame my thoughts with that as the excuse for glossing over things, for rushing through things, and leaving the stones unturned along my path to whatever scrap of meaning that I scrape together out of my sleep dust. All that’s well and good, but I see that I’m still here, more than a year later, with the same problems, the same ex, the same boy, and the same headache. If I skip over the stones, if I turn over the stones, the same time was taken. There is no use rushing through this. This space, it’s not a path to somewhere, it’s a racing track. Everything that I run past, I’ll be running past it again on the next lap.