My apartment in Charlottesville swelled with coffee cups. Each one started out warm and brimming with hope, a hope that I could find the words—for a story, a love letter, a mantra—that would lead me out of my mess. But by the end of each day, the coffee cup would be heavy with soot. So heavy I couldn’t lift it. The mugs began accumulating on my windowsills. By the time I finished my thesis, my apartment, a yellow-walled attic, had taken on the sunken smell of soil.
