there's no wasted time - by jaron - the way home

Blocks and sandcastles. Shoveled holes and flower crowns. When you were a child you would scribble on walls and on printer sheets, gleefully holding them up in search of recognition from whoever's eyes lay present to grasp your effort. We were once unafraid. Barefaced in our crude works, born to sew patterns of becoming, poking our fingers through the world’s fabric to see where they pop out the other side. Our sandboxes and grassy fields. Sincerity.