“I don’t have a dream,” I decided as I crouched under the warm water running from the showerhead. The glass door was starting to mist up, forming a translucent layer that gently concealed whatever it held behind. “I don’t have a dream, and that’s not a bad thing.”

An empty canvas, which meant that whatever colours I eventually chance upon to throw onto my masterpiece, I’d be happy with it.

Do you think we put other things down to make justifications for ourselves


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