I am incredibly busy this week. Lists consume my life; strokes, twists and curls which form letters, which build into words, which join as concepts, or else chores, and though the written word calms it also feeds on me, and I can feel my mind racing but I am too lazy to catch up to it. We consume each other in a pen-and-paper battle, and I never come out on top because there is always something more to say. How many words are inside of my being? How many memories? Would my writing fill books, walls, streets, the Pacific Ocean? When I think of death, I think of words in Times New Roman font trickling from my body as blood.