It's sprinkling. Pitter patter. Everything is richer looking, deeper. I smell a neighbor's dinner. Something hearty. Potato based. The chair arm rubs against my elbows. A closet door slides in its tracks downstairs. I let myself be present in a way I don't do anymore. I used to lie in bed, watch the light through my green and white curtains, and play a game. How many different sounds could I hear? A lawnmower? A toilet flush? Car door slam? Rubber trash can lid knocked to the ground? An airplane? A siren? I'd shut my eyes so the lids formed slits and see what I could recognize. It's different when it's blurry. I'd stare at my hand and watch the veins move. I'd lie on my back, in the grass, and let it itch all up and down my legs. I'd crawl under my bed and touch the pointy metal springs. I'd look at my chest in the mirror and wonder how big my boobs'd get. I'd color in the lines and think that once I finished a thing it would somehow live on its own. Like Frankenstein.

But I don't do that anymore.