They ask me why I write so much about red string. These are my journals. Like anyone, I want to remember. The light, the dark, the space between the two. The almost but never quite. My words are for no one but myself. There is no story. These are my hands. I use them for love. I asked him to break the fingers when I was young because I was afraid of their power. I keep them busy with paper, I keep them busy with pens. I just wanted to explain it. No one could understand the weight of my heart. How it empties and fills. How the moon dictates which. I keep these books because I cannot keep time. I always get there early. When I try to talk, my tongue ticks, and ticks, and ticks. I am not scared of losing anymore. Nothing goes away.