It’s 2:30am and I pick up my felt tip pen for what feels like the hundredth time this hour. As I roll its round body between my fingertips, I feel the cool plastic melting away as it hits the warmth of mine. The inside of my cheek is raw from chewing and I run my tongue along the tracks of uneven skin. I rack my brain for a sign of life, but once again, my thoughts come up short. Memories reverberate off the empty walls of my mind, but I cannot decide which one to use. Like any other human, I’m attracted to the bittersweet of nostalgia. I close my eyes and breathe in the familiar smell of my apartment. The infusion of spices and glowing candles warm my insides. The overwhelming scent of natural peanut butter from when I dropped it all over a set of dishes that had just been washed the night before. I laugh to myself and feel an ache in my stomach from the giggles my roommate and I spilled. I feel the damp autumn air that whispers through the open porch door, consuming every inch of every room. I listen to the wind and the rain dance awkwardly outside of my window and hope that, eventually, maybe their dance will become a riptide inside of me. Let us give up on belief. Instead, let us fabricate your world, my world, our world, out of a clumsy cluster of words strung together.