suddenly everything is art.
and there is scribble everywhere. scrawled on backs of receipts and torn envelopes. on the inside of book covers and discarded note cards.
and much of it is just that: scribble.
but some of it.
well some of it, be it a word or a phrase or a thought that was nearly not mine--fills me. topples me. undoes all i ever claimed to know or be. and it is love. and i am in love. with the world and myself and all that is yet to come.