I find it hard to write between classes. I sit in the hallways, notebook open in my lap, and it is as if I have taken out my soul, and laid it across my knees, with needle and thread for mending. But the people walk by and they see me. I am afraid that they will stop, and they will ask me, "What are you writing?" How will I explain to them that it is not an essay, but a story, that it is not for class, but for myself. They would not understand this thing. And then they will ask, "What are you writing about?" or "So, what kind of story is it?" And me, sitting there, soul laid out across my knees, can I really point out to them all the flaws and all the scars? The worn fabric, and the unraveling threads. See here where there's a hole straight through? But someone has sat down next to me now, and I can write no longer.