I will accept beauty in the form of my hands against a mop. I will accept it in the form of another story to tell. I will accept. I will accept. I will accept. The hues of brown that can infinitely exist became wonderful to me. Every day that I go to my job the touch of the lonely arm increases. It became exciting to work so thoroughly with just my hands. I could bite into the juicy fruit of my labor. I learned to distinguish my work from my art. I get paid at my job and I write for a higher purpose. I write for free. I write to feel less alone. I write to make you feel less alone. I write for art. Or was it for Art? Or… what was it for again?