Hearts are addictive. Even as dust, we crave, we desire. We seek distinction, and we find safety in our sameness. All of which propels the drive to create.“It doesn’t matter,” I tell myself as I delete another file, trash a painting, or tear a sketch. There is no proof of knowledge gained by these moments stacked atop the last. The future holds the fruits of our labors delicately close but never out of sight.