I am eavesdropping on my life, as if it were not my own. I am piecing together what I can gather. Glimpsing images as if only passing words. Grotesquely saturated colors with tangled digital fragments, darkly printed monochromatics. Blurry, barely visible, collapsing compositions — the palm’s grasp of everything gaseous. The resulting patchwork story is not outstandingly brave, strong-willed, or radical. Most days, it is the folly of a nondescript existence reaching outward, gathering the courage to say the words bursting from your stomach. I am refusing the vanity or narcissism of looking for yourself in the world, and the pessimism about bleaker, colder things. I now only hope for the broad imaging of a relentless optimism for—and commitment to—the delicate. A view through teary eyes of the gleaming, hallowed light of life.