She is a poet. And an alcoholic. But not neccessarily ever those two things simultaneously.

Although quantitative physics would suggest otherwise.

She is a woman. And a child. Often. In various ratios. You must always remember to account for the variables. Time travel. Which is what writing is remains a fractured science. An evolution of infinite interelations whose sporadic equations culminate in the sum of us.

But again. Time travel is a fickle business of intelligent molecules and stupid skin. Some parts end up where we've sent them. While others are lost forever in tragic transporter malfunctions.

The whole is only an imagined transference. A beginning point we keep as our waivering constant. In a world where nothing is.

Constant.

You'll understand better when you're staring at a thousand instances of yourself and trying to decide which ones you belong in.

Or maybe you'll never understand.

And I've watched too many episodes of Star Trek.



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