There is a wandering. A billion people waiting. I am waiting, too. How can I not be IT? There are fires and running and in my head jumping. And pencil chewing in all the nervous laughter that could mean something. How do I not mean anything?

Inside, it's all chicken with its head chopped off and black coffee and paints and books unfinished and babies not born and good red wine and ex-lovers who don't go and little things that bother me and places I'd much rather be and French and Italian and Portuguese lessons and needing clean sheets and wanting a new man and making lists and loving the word caricature and shoe gazing and Marrakech and symbolism and imagining things not real and writing and uncontrollable laughter and wanting to be more political and cutting my own hair and guilt and smiling and not smoking and bleeding and closed shutters and rain not falling and oh my god, I'm going to be 24 this year...

How do I not mean anything yet?