I noticed I keep drawing the same face–the same young woman–yesterday working on an illustration. And I wondered who she is. Sometimes I draw friends or lovers. But this is a face I don’t recognize. Drawing is like dreaming, when you get it right, when you’re in the flow…So ‘who is this?’, I wondered. When you dream about someone you know, you can tell them. And they’ll tell you what it means; they’ll confirm the connection, the mysteriously, intuitively-gleaned information. But she could be anyone or no one. Except no one is no one. Maybe she’s someone I spoke to on the phone, in some random customer service scenario; she helped me with my banking, and I read her emotions without realizing, across the wires, like magic, like witchcraft or love. Is everyone connected, all the time: cells in the same giant organism? Or is she in pain, somewhere, with me as her only witness? It could be we’re just two strangers dialed into the same wavelength, sensing each other. Unless these things just travel in one direction, and I am alone, keeping the world company, at random, on call. If I were tripping on acid musing this stuff, people would think it was cool. If I were stoned, even. But I do this totally sober. So they think I’m nuts, instead. They think I’m wasting my time. Maybe, though, maybe she’s the daughter I aborted all those years ago. She’s about the right age. I look closer, at her pencil lines, for a resemblance, for a combination of me and my ex. How do I even know it was a daughter? I don’t know. Or I do know. I know all these unknowable things. Or, this is just a mind that knows itself: my mind telling me the stories I want to hear, dreaming with me, not caring about the division of fiction and fact. Because the feelings are true. There’s no way to check. So I just keep drawing her.