Thirty-two is fourteen short of forty-six. Thirty-two collects pools of hope, and swims naked in them without fear. It no longer wears a muzzle but proudly wears a mask. Thirty-two sees through a lens of remarkable colors. Its prismatic visions are years ahead of its time. Thirty-two tastes like tinny blood on a tongue bitten for far too long; it sings confidence through chipped teeth— freed from four years of clenched disgust. Thirty-two does not have time to stop and smell the roses, but will demonstrate how to make perfume from them, instead. It has the words that thirty-one never had and keeps them in a pocket that will accidentally go through the wash. Thirty-two walks in the opposite direction, but ends up on greener grass. It orders a drink with a covered smile and still generously tips the rude bartender. Thirty-two prefers both honey and vinegar to catch its flies, and professes that knowledge is a weapon best sharpened by modesty. Thirty-two is an even number with an odd beginning. It suggests that what comes next might have even more curves. Thirty-two sets the stage for transformation, but, more importantly, drops the mic.