There is simply no way for me to say, “Okay, we did it. This is a lot of words.” Why? Because I did not set out to write anything in particular. I did tell myself regularly about this broader number goal, but let’s be honest. That’s just something you say per milestone and every once in a while, probably every day, to keep your head up and shoulders loose. But the thing is that if it’s just word count, then there really is nothing to say. It is just word count though. Just a bunch of words. I agree with that, but in the moment, I am dashing, crying, and completely massacring everything that I know just to say hello. A piece of myself to you. I wake up, and I find myself unable to see without feeling that indeed, I live in a world, in a life, and immediately, I am unable to bear simply with just letting things happening, because as long as I am alive, I have a duty to take full accountability, going beyond just watching and just appreciating the world from this passive distance to engaging with all of it actively, not merely internally, but expressively, powerfully, muscularly, in a forceful way that demands instinctive reactions but enables for respect and authority. This is not about social points or climbing. This is about being able to weaponize the idea that you are and the lived experience of having been and having thoroughly in the moment experienced the agony of this feeling that this is just so much and whatever else there is happens to itself, and you want to let that happen. But you’re here. You’re a part of this world. Why watch this world as if you’re an observer? Try making mistakes. Take risks. Say things! Shit for all I care! Just believe in the you that exists in a world of change. This is us walking hand in hand trying our hand at this world that is so irrevocably what it is, and what it isn’t and then what it is again, and by that point, nothing, immanent silence in the coarse ringing and flooding of an endless history of change and development. It is like waking up. It is waking up. It is a moment of being, of trying, of digging, of plunging our hands into the mud (paper) and bursting it all into it, in self-expression, and even if the mud never goes away and the road remains unchangingly scarred, we can at least acknowledge that this finality we’ve given ourselves in our say is worth this moment and this moment worth as our entire lives as a composition of such moments. At any given time, we are.