I don’t know what to write anymore. Excuse me but I’m confused. I work in cubicle hell but the people are great. I have words in my body which may perhaps form an ugly and gnarly book (I’m thinking of calling it Don’t Touch Me). The beauty in the ugly and ugly in what I love is making me speechless. All I know is I know nothing. And when I walk to my cubicle, I take long strides and pretend I’m still backpacking, marching with determination. Because it’s still a pilgrimage of some sort. I’m sure of it. I think.
