There has always been the popular way, the accepted way, the right way to exist, to breathe. After all, if one has the temerity to exist, she might as well carry out her livelihood in the expected manner. One must always be alert and ever-conscious of the popular poise with which to straighten one’s spine, to curl down the swollen edges of a shameless mouth. But there have been times, rich times, when I’ve lost sight of such significances and chosen to let my books rest upon my hip like a new creation of infancy. Times when I’ve forgotten to forbear by lips from parting over retired teeth as fantastical daydreams daintily sipped the awareness from my head. There are times during a Friday’s lesson when I have unknowingly pressed my chest in awe of the hazy layer of morning mist just beyond the arithmetic window. And when the loathsome hour of Physical Education rolls around, I’ve often forgotten to feign participation, all interest lost in going through the motions of running towards the soccer ball with any supposed intentions of getting within proximity of it. On occasions, I abandon my compulsions and allow my hair to go astray with each lustful snap of my head. I embrace each afternoon that I neglect to conceal the glimmer vulnerable admiration behind pupils, widened with longing. Every now in then, retrospectively, I think to document precious afternoons—few and far between—during which the childish hunger for doodling satisfied a ravenous spirit in a way that a plastic visage never could.