But what kind of future had she been saving for—the future that she was living in now without any art? She had so many ideas that she had never pursued, so many sketches she had made but abandoned throughout the years. She realized the part of her that dreamed had died somewhere, too, snuffed by a need for practicality, stability, a sense of value in this world, which always seemed to measure you with fixed numbers that had been created for whom, by whom? Not her. Not her mother.
