While I wait in this interval for some sign to appear, let us take inventory. What do I have left to carry me from one phase to the next? A few crumpled leaves, a cracked sidewalk, a lot of feelings. Not much, and only one truly belongs to me.
Sometimes you turn the page yourself, and other times you must wait for another hand to turn it for you. Sometimes you become acutely aware that you aren't writing this part of your story.
This is one of those times, so for now there's nothing to do but wait for my chance to take back the pen.
(The title sounds like it should be an Edward Gorey book, and frankly, it would be better that way.)
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