How do we describe those we love? If we could wear those words and feelings, wouldthe fabric send sparks through our fingers? Would it be made of soft wool andhand-woven yarn, spinning ideas and causing our hearts to yearn for more? Is it for the occasion of a lifetime? The outfit we wear when we want to dance downthe street and hum our favorite song? Our beating hearts are not so easilyhidden behind sequins and denim. Each thread is hand-sewn and dyed, imprintingour purpose one plunging needle at a time. We are crafted through experiences,relationships, and patterns. Burn marks on the carpet, cakes cooling on marblecountertops, foggy breath on reading glasses, papercuts on tiny fingers,breathing in the tepid summer evening’s air. Transformative or unremarkable,every moment leaves a groove in your brain that’s entirely undetectable until avaried form is reflected over conversations at the dinner table.  Past+Present | The sun was bright, but herhands ached and trembled as the wind cut through her down-padded jacket.Clenched fists relaxed, and the unmistakable smells of sticky caramel, rusticloaves, and cocoa powder wafted through the air. The boulangerie was particularlyquiet on that day. The wind whistled through the door and slightly crackedwindows as she found a seat close to the glass display of pastries. Her eyesscanned the room, moving over faded posters, a job board filled with smallscraps of paper and back towards the silver-edged case. Every knick and grooveetched a story. Behind lay steaming rows of sugared doughnuts and other sweetcreations. She imagined the satisfying grit turning to syrup on her tongue. Shehad sought out this quiet haven for reading- a small defiance of routine. Sheflipped to the permanent earmark on the 15th page of her novel. She siftedaround the words, looking for a phrase that would remind her exactly where sheleft off. There: “Intentionality is an earnest effort by its nature.Directional souls know this well. They are in touch with their reasoning andthat which is externalized from it. How another may perceive this action isunknown. However, when you know your purpose in devising this variable, youhave answered one side of the question, “Do intentions predetermine actions?”She paused. Was the idea of her intentionpreventing the reality of her freedom? The thought never crossed her mind.It was like a pill sitting in the back of her throat, waiting to be dissolved.She carefully repositioned the crease on the page and shoved the book into theinnermost compartment of her jacket. Static raised the hair on her arms. Thebitter wind still whipping through the city now felt crisp and exciting. Abrief gust pushed her slightly to the right as if nature heard her request. Sheleaned in and began walking down the street until she reached the next block. Alaundromat, thrift store, and stationery shop sat squarely beside one another.She cupped her hands and peered through the glass of the thrift store. Shecould make out a mannequin next to a rack of leather belts towards the back.She squinted and then winced as sun rays created a glaring aura inside. Hervision refocused on the mannequin. There it was. The feeling she was searchingfor draped across the plastic bodice. Cold shoulder, deep amber, she pressedher face against the glass to get a better look. White stitching fractured thesections of amber, giving the silky dress a craquelure effect. She saw purpose waiting for her in that store. A bell chimed as she steppedinside. A salesperson looked up from the register. “Hi. How can I help you?”     =Future | Sun peaked through the barredwindows in the warehouse. Through the slivers of light, tattooed limbs andbroken bottles could be seen scattered around the room. “Last night was fun.”, she thought. She leaned back onthe floor, still feeling the thumping base traveling through her skin.Conversations danced in her mind. The leftovers from the night before were nowmaking their way out back to lives unknown. With a sense of accomplishment andeducation, she, too, wandered out into the still morning. Her phone was dead. Asmall group of friends from the night before waved her over and offered a ridehome. Slightly off-kilter, she accepted. Her roommates were beginning to stirwhen she arrived. Gently, she locked the door behind her, ensuring it didn’tstick. She performed one last dance across the creaking floorboards, quietlymaking her way to the bedroom. She threw herself into the familiar imprint inthe mattress. Strands of hair splayed across her face as she watched fragmentsof conversations projected on the ceiling. These were conversations you couldonly have in your softest, purest state. The fuzzy warmth of the drink she heldin her hand hours ago washed over her. She closed her eyes and stretched herarms behind her just far enough that her fingertips brushed the hot metalradiator. Reflexivelypulling back, she tucked her arms beside her and settled in for a long-awaitedrest. Dreaming came easy to her. Faces with piercings, freckles, bleachedbrows, and other indiscernible features shone through in brief remembrances.Shared stories of hardships, hopes, and dreams were bolded in exaggeratedgestures. She danced alone in a laser-painted room - only her and the DJ. Hercells were alive with the sounds of a distorted orchestra. A voice appeared inthe dark, their face only visible through strokes of pink and blue. The absenceof a true form gave way to wild dancing and the occasional locking of eyes. Asthe set slowed, the voice cut through the light beams.“Youremind me of someone,” they said.“Oh,really?” She replied. Aneon smile appeared. “He’s an artist - works with his hands mostly. Likes todecorate vases with scenes of conversations he’s overheard.” “Likea vignette?” She asked. “Exactlythat. Like a single scene of a play.”“Howdoes he decide which conversations to mold?” “It’sa naturally occurring thing.” She understood their meaning. “Conversations have a way of taking root. I mayforget someone’s name or face, but I could recite an entire episode from Fais pas ci,fais pas ça.“Nameand face?”Theylaughed. “So,what made you think of him when you looked at me?”“Mainlythe way you moved.”“Youcan see me in here!?” She exclaimed.“Barely.Just shadows. You looked like a ghost on the wall. This would be the perfectplace for a haunting, wouldn’t it?”“Ihave a theory about that.” She said,Theymotioned their hand, beckoning the revelation. “Ithink we’re all ghosts reliving our vesseled lives- trying to find the piece ofunrest that’s left us in this state. It’s not a curse but more of a chance tofind our purpose.”Therewas a long pause.“What’syours?” They asked. Anotherpause.“Ifeel like I’m at the edge of a cliff. I can’t see what’s beyond the boundary.But I know what’s behind me.”“Willyou jump?” Suddenly,the cord of reality tightened, and she was jolted awake. Three missednotifications. Suggested: Mom, “Hi,honey. How’s the city treating you? We miss you here. Call me when you can[heart emoji].” The other two came from numbers she didn’t recognize. Herfamily was supportive but didn’t understand the decision to move. The lasersflashed through her mind again, signaling her closer to the cliffside. “Do youwant coffee?” One of her roommates called out. She looked at the time; only anhour had passed. “Why not?” She shouted back. It was time to start the day.