There are those who find comfort in repetition. And then there are those like me, who find no comfort in it but go on anyway, trial and error and error and error over and over until my fingers turn to slivers of meat and bone. Somewhere a slingshot held taut but targetless, a stone resigned to aimlessness, homing in on something not quite nameable. Perhaps this is what labor means, the common, endless turning, the emulation of seasons, a tree bearing fruit and a fruit falling to earth and rotting, then becoming a tree again. The world does not get tired even when it should, and there is little comfort in knowing that this is the way it’s always been, this is the way it’s supposed to be, this is the way it’s supposed to be.