There is no lesson from gnomology that has ever helped produce a dream achieved, especially regarding connections. Sitting in reverie, wondering what it’s like to be touched, trying to remember the last time skin contacted skin in a hold instead of a brush, lips purse and eyes lower in accepted fate. Strength exists under an outer layer of mansuetude, but attraction to either kind owned by this body has never required hands out of pockets. Every assurance that connections will come is discounted–in spite of a comforting truth being desired above all–as if taken from a pseudologer. Even the occasional hold seems distant and fleeting, with separating elements awaiting the path being walked. Patience and hope are all that remain; if one will not be chosen, then one may is well choose the self.