It’s so hard to make time for the bright, magical things in my life. I crave them, I need them. Each night I lay in bed and pray that their powers envelop me like new skin. I can feel them. They grow and stretch and strain over me, whispering plans and promises just as sleep begins to come. Then, I awake, rough, and peeling, with old scabs ripped anew. They remind me that my time dominated by gray, bumbling things. That it is pushed forward by their necessity.