I’ve spent years looking for my life down the dirty drain of hopes and moods melting like winter, not seeing or caring outside the cramped concrete tunnels, shiny and echoing, and bright pinprick of light at the end, drawn in my glazed-over, half-closed and hopeful eye by acedia. Sometimes shadows flash their half-forgotten forms on the moon-shine in front of me, and I stop to pick at them with short, bitten fingernails before I scramble on. I tell myself the light looks like faces of happy children, perhaps my own. And I see the light and say it would be very good had I not made it, shaping joy with tiny hands. I only need the crevice broken in the wet concrete where I can press through my grimy hands and hair and eyes panicked by the close rock and pumping breath into the light and crowd of happy faces. I’ve been looking for years.