Where else can I find my beauty? Sad contemplations on the front porch at dusk, barefoot and accompanied only by the gravel, sweeping foliage, and cheap wind chimes? There is no one behind the curtains of the houses around or before me, no lashes casting shadows on the cheek of a quiet boy who’s loved me for years.

My but if we aren’t the children of reviews. A stylish path towards self-discovery. Let’s bind it, copyright it, and make it a major motion picture. That way my words might hold a kind of climax magic, and while your eyes scan this sprawled handwriting, my voice will rise to meet the words and read along. I’ll soften the nonsense, and with the arrival of these torn out composition pages will come images of jasmine and braids, and my smile, as the mailbox lid slams and the story ends with a mysterious, premature closure that somehow implies Happily Ever After.