The flowers on your mother's windowsill stretch and bulge and dazzle with their vigor, put you to shame with their will to live, their aptitude for hope. You walk alongside a spring brook and try to feel the same, try to muster the courage for another step, and another. They're trying to break your spirit, you hear across the airwaves, and you know they are right, you know it is the time to look for plaster casts. You're almost ready.
Driving home, late in the night, the mountain pass turned itself inside out to a wakeup call of a blizzard, dark roads and lone semi trucks painting a scenery around you that spoke only of vastness, only of space. You are so small, so insignificant, and it was always your greatest comfort. Now we must be small and significant, somehow, and you do not know the way.
Everybody's looking for the exit.
Why must you be so hell-bent on diving into the depths.
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