His lips became mushrooms in the darkness, smooth on one side and fringed against the other. This is how we sleep; coiled like ropes woven over weeknights and day trips. We are snug and sweltering, we are grasping and murmuring. Still on these dry season eves.

My real job bores me. I find internet distractions. Find ways to overload myself. Swore I would never curate again yet here I am, eating myself out of time.

I want to do everything-I want to find balance. I'm pretty ambitious for a sloth. I want greatness and to hide under the kitchen table. I am terrified of achieving my dreams.