Marcie naps blissfully across my lap, her breaths coming through long, measured gaps. Gomez pads through the hallway, stepping softly so as not to stir his eager pursuer. The French press is still 2/3 full, and the coffee is just the right temperature. Ashley slowly stirs, the bed creaking under her soft movements, Sirius no doubt curled up at her feet. The book on my knee summons up bright, beautiful images set against one of the darkest backdrops imaginable. 

And for all that I lament not having kept a regular paper journal through the years, I remember little entries like this – on blogs, in a multitude of unfinished notebooks, on slips of paper – fragments of me scattered through space, that if collected, reveal more through the blank spaces in between than the records collected. The empty pages of the journal – my decision for an alternative ending ; the onset of a new notebook or blog signaling a new interest; and the “this time I’ll write more consistently” entries, the manifestation of inspiration, captured through pen strokes where a picture would ultimately fail. 

The chaise of the couch is stained with trails of Marcie’s fevered snacking, where the rest of the couch cushions have already been washed. Unfinished tasks. The breath beyond the credits. The next step after the last page has been turned. This couch is a thread of infinity. 

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