"Choose her a name she will answer to..."

Fighting my impulses or giving into them, finally---
I'm not sure. We're lost somewhere between figuring things out and figuring out if things are important, which things exactly to cry over and which to let our sockets dry like gumballs over or which to get over fast like a teenage eyeroll, unspoken and pointed, hurtful and deadly. This is something like fingernails on the window pane, tapping in goodness and badness, in sickness and in health.

Have you found something that looks like forever yet? I just wonder what your brain looks like when you know I am crying myself to sleep.