"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main." - John Donne, Meditation XVII

you and i are attached. what you do matters to me. you shape me to who i am today. you could be a dent, a scratch, a mark, or even a huge depression on my side. but you have left yourself. on me. in me. but who are we, other than a bunch of clay dented, scratched, marked, and pressed by those around us? where are we in this picture? we are the clay. what kind of clay are you?

“So that to know her, or any one, one must seek out the people who completed them; even the places.” - Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway