Some random dude on the street asked me why I don't have children. He apparently has 10. I just wanted to get butter and tea.

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My fuchsia bush is a monster, lush and enormous, with scarlet tentacles clad in emerald leaves (yellowing here and there) and purple-hearted pink blossoms. The bees love it, persisting at their work even in the rain. I watch them from my desk, among my books and notes, these gestures to a future more aligned with my deepest desires. As tiny bee-ings drift from blossom to blossom, panniers slung with gold, I take heart and type more words, one by one.

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