So far, I've ruined two pair of pants with paint spills, and clumsy mishaps. It would be the one pair of jeans without a hole in the knee. But writing all that is just to fill in the awkward silence, the hollow feeling after long days, and uncertainty. I am vague, I know. It's only that being sad never reads well, and phone calls drop out, fail. There are so many things broken, that I cannot mend. Distances I cannot bridge. Maybe painting isn't for me, after all. Maybe I need the warmth and comfort of yarn... row after row of shells, to wrap around and hold me together, bigger, to share.