Finishing art is overrated, nonessential. The process is essential. That’s all. There was a pink pastel laying near the charcoal, and an earth-tone pastel laying near the pink pastel. There were scissors nearby too. I chose pink.

We all end up somewhere. All of us? Me too? I end up at the back of the line; I’ve let everyone go before me. Please, I say. After you…

That’s beautiful, what she feels, he says. Then he says: I don’t think either of us have ever actually lost our sense of control in love. I say I agree. And I don’t know that I even aspire to do that, he says.

If everything is made up, perhaps nothing matters. If everything is made up, perhaps it all matters.