almost_face raze once, an art teacher visited my sixth grade class. he told us we were all artists. even if we didn't believe we were. just let your hand move the pencil on the page, he said. don't think. don't try to form any object you know. he spent a bit of time with each student, helping them smoke out what was true. when he came to my desk, he took in the mess of crooked lines i'd made and said: you see that? there's a face in those curves. i looked closer. he was right. i inked the open eye, traced the outline of a nose that was already fully formed, watched hair tumble down the shoulders of the beardless beast, and i saw myself ten years in the future, gaunt and gilded with nascent grief. 250127 what's it to you? who go blather from