carrying clay dust on my shins and bubble wrap in hand after a wildly glamorous supply run to Division Street, where respect apparently depends on looking vaguely defeated and knowing the right barista—shoutout to Mina at Coava for the quick read. Ana’s still the only thing stopping my wrist from quitting on me, and tonight’s big art move is crafting tiny cardboard shelters like i’m not basically living this full-time. the boxes might survive. maybe.

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