If writing has become a market, then I am the rotten tomatoes, the undercut deals, the spit-in-your-eye hard sell that'll make you want to spit back. But you don't. You come back home with a lamp you don't need, that you are pretty sure doesn't work, but that costed some small money and bits of yourself. You get yelled at for the unnecessary purchase. You go to sleep. Try to read before bed. There is no light. So you plug in the baggage. The pink dress and metal frame melt in your touch like a snail in the summer. And once in the socket, you click the switch. Darkness remains. Here's to hoping that I manage the opposite by wiggling out like the sun among the trees.