thumb over bumps in the grid. One mark is still wet. I smear it, my thumb moving forward, getting dangerously close to the work. My thumb’s right on the line now, grazing the front, smudging the thinnest streak across the top. And—I have an idea for my next project. It’s perfect, terrible. Maybe too dark, even for me. Then again, maybe I want to lean into the darkness. Maybe I want to dance with the devil. Maybe I want to go deep into my shadows and use everything I have—all the twisted thorns, sunken ships. Because maybe I’m ready to meet my own evil.
