Where did I get this set jaw, these insistent bones, these spikes on my spine? Where did I get my fury, my rigor, impatience, my need? Who made this impossible architecture, these teetering whims, my faulty thoroughfares of thought? Where is the origin of my clanking messes, my indelicate dancing, my incoherence? Where did I get these cluttered affections, this fumbling artlessness, this rickety seesaw of love?
And yet, who am I without my deficits? Who am I without my untimely malfunctions, my unavoidable catastrophes? Who would touch me without my chaos, my unwieldy mistakes? Who would hold me without my clumsiness, my imperfections, my sorrow? Who would love me without my rain, my dark fog, my perilous highways, the broken arrow of my wild, disastrous heart?