I flip on the light to the strip light every morning and roll my eyes when I remember for the hundred-and-oneth time that at this moment you are no more than a one foot long snake of white cord hanging from the ceiling, with no lights.

I bump my hand into the ceiling of the tiny bathroom and groan in my knowledge that the reason why I am getting dressed in a bathroom the size of a plane bathroom is because of the white levening paint intended to be painted over in the bathroom downstairs, which caused the mirror to be taken down, never to be repainted.

I stroll into my bedroom and see the vastness of the blank white canvas marked with scratches from time, with smudges that once were sketches of what it was to be, knowing that it will never be finished nor will I ever convince myself to use it for something else because it was the best project idea I'd ever had.

I move to feed the turtle in the morning and I observe the dusty white plastic cage meant to replace the rock that the turtle now weighs nearly to the bottom, meant to sit on top with the light hanging from the forlorn lamp stand, now without a purpose.

I shuffle through the basement and feel the textured carpet under my feet turn to cold concrete as I move to retrieve art supplies, looking around noticing that the space is no longer empty assuming that we would one day replace the carpet, it is bursting full of boxes.

To all the things left undone, I'm sad to say, your life of being complete is over now, your days of prime gone away, now it seems your only dream is to be used as you are.