Twilight: bittersweet. Sweaty from work, and in the cold, I shiver under a cotton-candy sky. Is it so much to ask for validity? Is it too much to ask for brick and mortar? I’ve been trying to build a church out of my many failures and one feeble success. Is there no cornerstone here that I may lay a foundation and watch the blackbirds settle under my steeple? I: the patron saint of migrations and chapped knuckles. I: the purveyor of silence who takes wage in the form of holes. Holes I still cannot fill. I: drowning in debt within a society I never asked to claim me. I work at a gas station. My education has gotten me nowhere. I reorder words into lies in hopes I name a bigger truth. My one success? I’m still here, barely; still breath and flesh and jagged tooth.