After dark, I am a nervous wreck. With spare time on hand, I find myself thinking: Will he? Will he not? Can it be? It cannot be. It cannot be. I play with the pen and paper. I shuffle my feet back and forth. I see that it is time to tidy my room. I fiddle with the random objects. This is not a pipe. This is not a painting. Painting is idiocy. My hands must move. I need order in my life. So I pick up the needle from where I left off. Knit, knit, purl, purl, and cross over. First, 6 times, then, 4 times, and we repeat the motion. Knit, knit, purl, purl, and cross over. My mind does not move forward as the needles do. My head is a mess of emotions, a little dance, it tumbles and spins and bruises. Tonight, tonight, I return to what I’ve always loved and will always love. I know my imagination stretches beyond the stale air; it is ever faithful; the images are vivid and concrete and I can see clearly again.