This word, even. This hrumphing in your heart, those tinny worries
niggling your breastbone. With the pantry in need of restocking,
and the yard overdue for a few turns of the rake. Let your "I'm sorry"s
be your chalk line at the track. Back out of the parking space squawking
at your honking replacement, then forget the argument entirely. Start anywhere.
Fill the waiting ledger that is your life. Record the lyrics of your masterpiece
before the world would call it so. Ink the outlines of a canvas that will be a rare
attic find long after you are gone. Build an empire of one. Release
the bird of your hunger from its rattling cage. There is a meal inside
the desert of every story. Listen close. Write it down. Open wide.