Panic.

What am I doing? Can I handle it? Was this too hasty? Can I do this, oh my god, can I?

Manic.

I can. I can. I can. I can. I want this, I want this bad, I want this badly, I want this so badly, I want this so badly that I did everything it took to got it, and I got it. And now I've got it. And I can do it.

Ecstatic.

OH GOD is it September yet? I am still excited, out of my mind excited, to move on with my life, be independent again. I'm excited to study my passion, and I'm excited to start something new. Oh Christ, am I excited.

Erratic.

I have an enormous amount to do before Minneapolis, and it's coming so fast. Am I going to be ready? Maybe. Did I make the wrong choice to start in the fall... should I have waited for winter, or even spring? Maybe. What if I find out part way through that really, I hate this, and I have to halt it all again? It's not a possibility I like to entertain. JESUS.

Pragmatic.

I've been moving non-stop since mid-last week. No, for real. Between working long hours, family reunions, commitments I made long ago, doctor appointments, and a well-deserved night out with my new friends, I literally have not stopped moving since mid-Wednesday. One thing at a time, motherfucker, slow down. Slow down. One thing at a time. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Slow logical steps.

Dramatic.

My camera's broken. I mean, beyond fixable. I cried.

Fanatic.

Inspiration comes from weird places. Sasha Pivovarova and Karen Elson, Seth Rogan and Jason Segal, Boston and Rush, the breeze and the sunshine, the light and the dark, the sharp and the soft, the monotony and the race.

Systematic.

Let's proceed.