How Strange It Is To Be Anything At All

There's something that feels so wholesome and safe about sleeping on a mattress on the floor of a best friend's gold-lit bedroom, a mug of Egyptian licorice tea in one hand, a pen in the other, a mattress at my feet.

I feel restored. I have hope for people again, it's magnified by the conversations we have, by the world through someone else's eyes, by the parallels I draw between us.

I feel like I'm looking in a mirror and I'm not sad about it. We'll both be just fine. And then better.

This is a thank you.