Born, reborn, redacted from the inside out.

The embers of creation burn strong under the ashes of despair. This is nothing new, no news to those for whom the act of setting one's self on fire is a weekly activity.

I'm not used to it, of course. I tend to be shelf-stable and long-running. Sometimes, though, the batteries run dry, and sometimes, though, I require a hit to the heart before I can register the time of day.

So I take it, and I use it for the purpose intended.

I'm working on reclaiming my body for my own purposes. Calisthenics, stretching, waking up long-dormant muscles -- remembering how to move. The next step is to decide what to do with it. September is not so very far away, and that's when things really start the yearly rush.

My thirtieth year is half-over, and it's been quite a full year so far. I was vaguely hoping for something sleepy and quiet, but it doesn't seem to get quieter than this, sitting and listening to the laundry run on as I type and draw and burn.