It’s something I keep replaying over and over and over to the point that I can no longer differentiate between the pantomime and the reality. We exist in a vacuum of my creation. Because it’s safer this way, right? And at some point you just have to let yourself be happy. But the pieces don’t fit while you’re blindfolded by your own reluctance. And I swear that I know that the words are spilling from my mouth, but I’d rather not be talking. There are much better uses of our lips at the moment. The journey to here is potholed and winding. And the map flew out the window three or so miles back. Traversing without aim has never been a problem before. But…