The summer monsoon taints the blue sky with it's black and grey. The baby momentarily naps while I try to finish a sentance. Nothing is complete the story never finished; only incomplete paragraphs on a half blank page. I step outside to smell the rain. I sneak a cigarette even though I quit a year ago. My mind races creating thoughts, phrases, endings. I wonder how I got here. Here in this place where I am now a mother franticaly trying to get it all down before my baby wakes up. The rain ends as quickly as it began, unlike my story which I can't seem to finish, if only all my fragments and snippets would make it complete. Is this what it is to be a mother? Never quite finishing, always morphing changing, an end never in sight? I want to capture this feeling, this insanity and make it stand still.