I See A Moon On An Ocean

WITS 2010-11 Digital Anthology

Cover Photo by: Lauren Van Steuven, Grant High School Title Page Photo by: Amy Navarrette, Madison High School

Contents Introduction

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Writers in the Schools

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The Dream ­— Elizabeth Fields

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Unique Hunger — Tomas Montoya 9 Arizona, 2011 — ­­ Kian Dye 10 The Forgotten Penny — Emily Reeves 11 Wake Up — Caroline Baber 13 Untitled — Brenee Pryor 14 The Menacing Mind — Adam McDonald 15 Run-On Sentence — Akiko Gorowski 17 I Am Who I Am — Renold Turenne 18 My Simple Story — Linette Meshack 19 Shattered Glass — Casey Hess 24

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Dear Reader, Writers are called to imagine their territory, explore their obsessions, and articulate their vision of what it means to be alive in a specific time and place. Alongside the print anthology, No One Carries An Umbrella Here. these digital chapbooks provide a playful frame for a diverse collection of poems, plays, comics, fiction, and nonfiction written by high schools students in Portland.

In 2010-11, WITS placed 23 local professional writers to teach 49 semester-long residencies in Portland’s public high schools, serving over 1,100 students. WITS served an additional 1,500 students through mentoring, author visits, and books, as well as tickets and transportation to literary events.

During a fifteen-week WITS residency, writers model the writing life, teaching students to focus first on exploring and playing with language. Our writers then teach strategies to sustain and develop a piece of writing. They share their expertise regarding the art, craft, and discipline of revision. During the final portion of the residency, students have opportunities to share their writing through public readings at neighborhood bookstores and cafes and through publication in our print anthology and digital chapbooks.

After fifteen years of service to Portland Public Schools, WITS continues to grow and change to meet the needs of students and teachers. Last year more than 1,200 high school students attended a literary event at Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall.

We also piloted a college essay-writing workshop in partnership with Franklin High School, training mentors to work with students on the essays students need for college and scholarship applications.

We are lucky to live in a city where people are excited about reading and writing.

At Literary Arts, our mission is to support writers, engage readers, and to inspire the next generation with great literature. Each year we raise over $180,000 to provide the Writers in the Schools program to students attending every Portland public high school, and we’d love your help. To order a print anthology or make a donation, visit us at www.literary-arts.org.

Mary Rechner Writers in the Schools Program Director

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WRITERS IN THE SCHOOLS 2010-11 WRITERS-IN-RESIDENCE Angela Allen, Turiya Autry, Lorraine Bahr, Carmen Bernier-Grand, Chris Cottrell, Hali Felt, Nicole Georges, Cindy Williams Gutiérrez, Hunt Holman, John Isaacson, Karen Karbo, Jennifer Lauck, Elizabeth Lopeman, Amy Minato, Renee Mitchell, Laura Moulton, Alexis Nelson, Mark Pomeroy, Ismet Prcic, Donna Prinzmetal, Joanna Rose, Matthew B. Zrebski VISITING AUTHORS Natasha Trethewey, Tracy Kidder, Joanna Rose, Renee Watson, Amanda Gersh, Michele Glazer, Wes Moore, Art Spiegelman PARTICIPATING TEACHERS Kelly Allen, Amy Ambrosio, Kathy Anderson, Matthew Boyer, Richard Brown, Annelies Bulow, Gretchen Craig-Turner, Michael Cullerton, Anne Dierker, Jennifer Doncan, Bianca Espinosa, Kelly Gomes, Ben Grosscup, Rebecca Gundle, Cindy Irby, Glen Jacobs, Tom Kane, Paige Knight, Steve Lambert, Eric Levine, Eve McAlister, Pat McCormick, Manuel Mateo, Darryl Miles, Kate Moore, Julie O’Neill, Pam Quale, Nora Robertson, Al Rowell, Alicia Smith, Sarah Steiner, Amy Taramasso, Henise Telles-Ferreira, Trisha Todd, Dana Vinger, Kristin Wallace, Janice Wallenstein, Ellen Whatmore, Amy Wright, Elisa Wong, Tracey Wyatt, Jamie Zartler WITS LIASIONS Matthew Boyer, Linda Campillo, Michael Cullerton, Paige Knight, Eric Levine, Dave Mylet, Sarah Steiner, Dana Vinger,Virginia Warfield, Tracey Wyatt PARTICIPATING PRINCIPALS Sue Brent, Petra Callin, Peyton Chapman, Paul Cook, Kelli Clark, David Hamilton, Toni Hunter, Shay James, Fred Locke, A.J. Morrison, Steve Olczak, Frank Scotto, Charlene Williams DISTRICT LIAISON Marcia Arganbright DIGITAL CHAPBOOK STAFF Acacia Blackwell Mel Wells 7

The Dream

Elizabeth Fields, Cleveland High School

The ocean crashes onto the beach, making the children and seagulls run away.

The footprints in the sand follow each other up into town.

The ticking of the clock is the only thing I hear when I lie awake in bed at night.

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Unique Hunger

Tomas Montoya, Roosevelt High School

My hunger is unique; you have never seen anything like it My stomach is like a black hole eating everything in its way My stomach is like a bottomless pit, never knowing when it’s going to end My traits are like a buffet; I have many to choose from My stomach is like a black hole eating everything in its way My stomach growls like a pack of wild animals looking for food My traits are like a buffet; I have many to choose from I am so thirsty, I will drink the ocean and still want more My stomach growls like a pack of wild animals looking for food When my stomach growls, it scares people away I am so thirsty, I will drink out the ocean and still want more I see the world as a plate of food; everything can be eaten When my stomach growls, it scares people away When I eat, I am like a person who hasn’t eaten in weeks I see the world as a plate of food; everything can be eaten My stomach is like an earthquake, never knowing when it’s going to hit When I eat, I am like a person that hasn’t eaten in weeks My stomach is a bottomless pit, never knowing when it’s going to end My stomach is like an earthquake, never knowing when it’s going to hit My hunger is unique; you have never seen anything like it.

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Arizona, 2011

Kian Dye, Cleveland High School

As she woke up, the world was crumbling around her. Hundreds of people were dying; thousands more would soon die in Iraq. There was a mixture of overpowering joy and unmatched sorrow in the hospital. It was the happiest time in their lives, and it was one of the worst times in our country’s history.

Nine years later, she is the future. Her neighbor brings her to meet the congresswoman. This is going to be a big day. She can feel the electricity in the air.

She is wearing a blue-checkered dress and her church shoes.They arrive in a blue Jetta. It’s busy. They walk inside and see the congresswoman. They walk over and introduce themselves.

Then he walks in. The gunfire starts and everyone starts screaming. The congresswoman gets hit first, then the girl. Her dress isn’t just blue anymore. This was supposed to be one of the happiest times in her life; instead, it’s the worst one. Just as she was brought into this world, she is taken out. In the darkest hour, she is a light.

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The Forgotten Penny

Emily Reeves, Wilson High School

“If you don’t tell him, I will,” threatened my mother, once I got done telling her the news in the car.

“But, Mother, it’s not a big deal. I mean, come on, he’s not going to miss it. I bet you ten bucks he doesn’t even know that he dropped it,” I said.

“That doesn’t matter, missy. It was wrong of you. Is that how I’ve raised you?” she asked me.

“Yes, Mom, it is how you raised me. Because you do it all the time. But I don’t judge you,.”

“That’s not the same thing. I’m your mother,” she said to me while she was turning the car around. “Now I’m going to take you back so you can return it to that gentleman.”

“This is beyond stupid. This, this is bonkers! He won’t miss it. So let’s just turn around and go home. I’ve got loads of homework.”

“I don’t care that you’ve got homework. You’re going to return that to that man.”

“FINE, Mother,” I said coldly.

Five minutes later, we got to the grocery store.

“Oh look, there he is. Now go give it back,” my mother said while giving me a little shove.

“Um, excuse me, sir, but you dropped this penny and I thought you would like it back,” I said with my hand extended to him with the penny in it.

“That’s perfectly fine, little girl, I’ve got millions,” he said and walked away, without the penny.

Wow, totally unbelievable, I thought to myself while standing there.

“Now what did I tell you, Mother? Oh yeah, something along the lines that he wouldn’t miss it, or care,” I called to my mother over my shoulder.

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“What did you say darling? Did he take the penny back?” my mother asked me.

“Never mind, whatever. No, he didn’t take it,” I snapped to my mother. “Now let’s go home. I have homework. Remember that?”

“Gladly, because I don’t want anyone to see me with you and know that you’re my daughter with this terrible attitude,” said my mother quickly.

“Whatever,” I said, walking toward the car.

“You need to be nice to me. I drive you everywhere, feed you, buy you clothes, and you treat me like crap sometimes. Well, more like most of the time,” my mother explained to me on the car ride home.

“I’m a teenager, Mom. What do you expect? Yes, you do all that for me, but that’s what you’re supposed to do. That comes as part of the package of being a mother,” I told her with lots of attitude. “Plus you just drove me to the store, again, for a stupid, pointless reason. To go up to a man, a stranger, and ask him if he wanted this penny, not special, that he so didn’t want back. Gosh!”

“Well, you know what? You just got yourself grounded, Debby. Two weeks with nothing,” my mother told me.

“Like what in the world would you take away?” I asked her. “My cell phone?

Wait, I don’t have one because you don’t want me to have a social life. My computer?

Oh, also don’t have one. We don’t even have a freaking TV that you could tell me not to watch.”

“The penny,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m taking the penny. You can have it in two weeks when you’re ungrounded,” Mother said, outside of our house now.

“Fine. Take the stupid penny,” I said, flipping it at her and closing the car door and heading to the house. “You can keep it for all I care.”

“Nah. It’s a worthless penny from the ground,” she said, getting the groceries and following me to the house.

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Wake Up

Caroline Baber, Cleveland High School

“When are you going to get up?” asks my mom.

“Five minutes,” I respond.

“You need to clean your room,” she says.

“I will,” I say.

“When?”

“Five minutes!” I say.

“Five minutes when?” she asks.

“Come on! Can’t I just lay here for five more minutes?”

“Take your shoes up and go clean your room.”

“I will.”

“When?” she asks.

“Five minutes,” I reply.

“Fine.”

“Good,” I say.

“If you don’t clean your room, you’ll be grounded,” she says.

“I will.”

“When?”

“Five minutes.”

“Fine.”

“Okay!”

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Untitled

Bryony Pryor, FOCUS

Isn’t it better this way; groggy emotions pour out, backfire wood burns out, the road to my neighborhood begins with utter zen, splinter daggers, smoldering love and catchphrases. It begins with someone else translucent agriculture fireworks of educating facts, me I’m just there adding happiness maybe bitterness/tartness, ‘cause no one’s perfect, things to the atmosphere. But you’re a great girl. I once believed you

said this but now all experimental jibber-jabber. Isn’t it better this way?

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The Menacing Mind

Adam McDonald, Wilson High School

The terrifying pitch of the alarm clock woke Jaison up as it did every morning – he would often refer to it as “the sound of pure death.” His eyes shot open, allowing the surrounding world to fill him with pain and misery. The hatred he felt for having to wake up early could be compared to the way Pluto must have felt about the International Astronomical Union’s decision committee.

However, the sweet warmth of joy that the daily shower brought him would always restore his faith in the universe. After the completion of the daily routine, he would head off to school, which he didn’t care for, though not in the way that others didn’t care for it. Unlike most people, Jaison hated the social aspect of high school.

“It’s like preparing a meal, no matter how good for you that fruit is, or how much healthier your body would be later on, most people always go for the meat,” Jaison would tell people. “And for the record, meat is both figurative and literal in that sentence.” Unfortunately for Jaison, he found that by trying to push people away, they drew closer to him, as if he was a magnet for people he didn’t want to talk to.

Don’t let any of this be misleading; Jaison was a very happy guy, perhaps happier than the rest of his peers. Emotions were always something Jaison liked, for he saw them as in his control. If he didn’t want to be angry, then why be angry? As a result, Jaison was always blessed with a constant good mood. He would never describe it as a sunny disposition, but rather the lack of a sad nerve.

He figured that everyone else must be crazy for letting themselves get so emotional about something that they started feeling bad. He would often ponder what was going through their brains to want to be sad, or angry, or depressed. “It’s all a frame of mind,” he thought. Shortly after pondering this he chuckled and realized he must be the crazy one, for if everyone else were normal then by default that would leave him in the loony bin.

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At the end of the day, all Jaison ever had to worry about was what he thought of himself. Though he feared that a deep inner part of him might be looking down at his being, as if it were all a lie, and his lack of a sad nerve was only a cosmetic feature. That perhaps he was cheating himself out of real happiness as opposed to artificial happiness.

Nobody could blame him for the creation of this theory, for that is what you get when you are left alone with only yourself.

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Run-On Sentence

Akiko Gorowski, Cleveland High School

When I am happy, I hide behind my fingers, and compliments make me giggly and I end up biting my lips really hard, songs fly in and out of my head, and the song switches to every bounce I take, my closet looks so glorious I have to try everything on and when he compliments me butterflies give birth to hurricanes in my stomach which nearly makes me melt to my feet where I will roll on the ground laughing and crying, drenched in my exciting sweat, and I wish he’d join me because I have a crush on him, yeah, I have a crush on him.

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I Am Who I Am

Renold Turenne, Roosevelt High School

I am who I am.

Nothing can change me.

Hating on me won’t change anything.

I’ll do what my heart desires.

Nothing can change me.

If you kill me I will arise from death.

I’ll do what my heart desires.

If you hit me I’ll hit you back.

Some say that I am an odd man, I say let me be odd.

Some say I need to get stronger.

Some say that I am an odd man, I say let me be odd.

Some say that I need to get stronger.

Hating on me won’t change a thing.

I am who I am.

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My Simple Story

Linnette Meshack, Roosevelt High School

“I can’t take this bullshit any more!” I screamed and slammed my bedroom door. “I miss my dad being in my life!” I threw my backpack in the corner and jumped on my pillow-top bed. “A man needs a male role model in his life to look up to, right?” I yelled to my homeboy Jay as he sat on my bed.

Jay’s a kid from around the block. He’s about two years older than me and he’s a very convincing fellow. He can convince you to do about anything. That’s how he got me into the gang that’s now like a second family to me. I took off my black hoodie and grabbed a hanger from my small, tightly packed closet.

“Man! I didn’t mean to make my mom divorce him.”

I passed Jay the blue and black brand-new Jordans he had stolen a couple days ago.

“Man, can’t you just get over it? What’s done is done,” said Jay, hoping I would change the subject.

“NO! I can’t just let it go! He won’t even accept my apology. Maybe if I had never caught him cheating then maybe we would still be a happy family. They were married ten years with no problems until he messed up!” I hung my sweater up and walked over to my computer desk, put my elbows on the desk, and buried my head into my hands. “Now my dad is getting more sick everyday and he won’t even let me help him,” I sighed.“I wish I could just tell him how much I love him.”

“Then tell him!!” Jay interrupted.

“I would if I could, but he wouldn’t even give me a minute out of his day.”

After Jay changed his shoes, he told me he’d be back the next day and left.

Later that night, my mom sat me down for a talk. As she rubbed her smooth light brown hands together, she calmly said, “I got a call from your school today.” She looked at me as I pulled out the dining room table chair to sit down.

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“They said that you haven’t been there all week!” she continued.

I didn’t want to tell her that I was actually skipping to go handle business with Jay. Business that I really shouldn’t been involved with in the first place. So instead, I just told her the first thing that came to my mind “Mom, they’re lying!” I said as I stood up and pushed my chair back in.

“The school wouldn’t lie about something like this!” she screamed back as I was already headed up the stairs to my room.

I knew that being around gang members wasn’t good for me but with a mom who’s always gone and a dad who completely hates me, my fellow gang members are all I have to turn to. I closed the door to my tiny bedroom door and kicked off my black Jordans and slowly rolled into bed as I pulled the blanket over my shoulders. I turned onto my side so that I was facing the blank white wall.

“I hope and pray that my dad will be okay as I close my eyes to sleep; I give you my heart as yours to keep. Amen.” I couldn’t stop thinking about my dad and how much our relationship had really fallen apart.

I woke the next morning and jumped out of bed, determined today would be the day I would go to my dad’s house and try to talk to him.

By the time I was done getting ready, the ground outside was completely covered in rain. I walked about a block to get to the bus stop and waited a couple minutes until the bus pulled up and I stepped in, not noticing all the people sitting there. I took a seat and began dreading the day ahead of me. Before I knew it, I was stepping off the bus and right into my dad’s small yard. My heart began to race, wondering what I was going to say. I slowly walked up to the door, my hands shaking in my pockets.

Somehow I managed to make it to the door. Bang! Bang! Bang! I stood there waiting for him to answer the door.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be here; maybe I should just go home; maybe-” My thoughts were interrupted as he opened the door, slightly. He was smiling, then his smile completely disappeared. He didn’t bother to say hi or how you doing. He just looked at me for a second and said, “I told you to never come to my house!” His breath had the smell of alcohol.

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“But, Dad,” I cried.

“I told you to never call me your dad, because I don’t have a son!” he snickered.

“You can’t disown me. I’m your only child!”

He frowned and attempted to shut the door in my face, but I quickly jolted close to him and put my foot in the doorway. As he stumbled back, I was trampled with a strong smell of alcohol. Tears filled my eyes.

“It is not my fault that you decided to do what you did! So don’t blame it on me!” I sighed. “Dad, I am your only child and you cannot just act like you hate me!” I took a deep breath and continued, “Dad, I’m sorry for taking part in your divorce, and I’m sorry that you can’t get over it.”

As my voice grew louder his facial expression turned from madness to sorrow.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I screamed “I love you and I need you!” Tears ran from my eyes I moved my foot and quickly began to walk away. I heard him say “wait” right before I turned the corner but I was too upset to face him.

During that week my dad tried to call a lot of times, but I was extremely upset. I didn’t want to see anyone: not Jay, not my mom, no one!

It took many hours being by myself to decide I didn’t need to be in a gang.

When I told Jay and the others, they didn’t take it very well, but I didn’t care. I got myself together and started focusing on school.

While I was in class one morning, my phone kept going off. It vibrated every second as I was trying to concentrate. When my math teacher finally finished up with the stupid daily lessons, I quickly left and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” my mom said, all worried.

“What’s wrong!” I screamed.

“Come straight to the hospital!”

“What’s wrong?” I screamed, as students looked at me like I was crazy.

“No time to talk, just come!”

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I ran to my locker and grabbed my bags and before I knew it I was at the hospital. I couldn’t stop wondering what was going on.“Is it Mom? Or Jay? Or…Dad? What’s wrong?” I kept asking myself.

As I made it to the lobby of Emmanuel Hospital, I saw my mom and Jay. “Come this way,” my mom said, pulling me towards the light brown room door.

“All he wants is to talk to you!”

I knew then it was Dad. I walked into the room. I looked ahead of me and stopped in my tracks.

“Dad!” I yelled.

I dropped my bags and my eyes began to get watery when I saw him lying in the hospital bed with an oxygen mask and a lot of machines around and wires attached to him.

“Come here,” he whispered, signaling for me to move closer to him.

With every single step I took, I shook more and more. When I stood beside him he grabbed my hand. I didn’t know what to think or do, after everything that we had been through I kept wondering if I really should have been there.

“Dad, what’s wrong?”

“That doesn’t even matter. I wanted to tell you I was wrong.”

I couldn’t believe my small ears. I had been waiting a long time to hear that. At that moment it felt as if time had stopped.

He continued. “I was wrong for blaming you. I just didn’t want to accept the fact that it was my fault that I lost the woman I love and destroyed my family. I’m sorry for not being there for you when you needed me.”

I stood there, shocked, not believing what I was actually hearing.

“Dad, it’s okay. I just want to know if you’re going to be okay.”

“Son, I don’t know.”

His eyes began to get lower and his lips slowly stopped moving.

Beep-beep-beep-beep... I looked over at the machines and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing; his heart rate was dropping!

“NURSE!” I screamed.

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The nurse rushed in, screaming that they needed more people to help; someone was trying to escort me out the room. I was hesitant to leave.

“Dad!” I yelled, hoping he would say something back, but instead the beeping from the machines just grew louder and louder in my ears.

“Dad!” I yelled again.

Then there was one long beep.

There I was, hanging on to the handle of the cold hospital door, when the nurse declared that my dad was dead. A heart failure.

When I finally had gotten what I wanted, when I finally got my daddy back, when things where finally going to be okay, when he finally talked to me!

I slid down against the door, put my face in my hands, and, for the first time in a long time, I cried like a baby.

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Shattered Glass

Casey Hess, Grant High School

“You piece of crap.”

Windows filter out the happiness the sun brings. Gray walls focus our attention onto a common goal, shared by the class. Our bodies go through torment day in and day out. Our feet spread onto the ground like a starfish on a rock, except we have the power to leave our foundation and return, for the most part, unharmed. Bars line the walls; they are placed so high that even the tallest in our class looks undersized. Mirrors line the front of the room. We stare at ourselves for the entire day, all sixteen of us. They are needed for correction, but all we see is the nonexistent image of a butt that sticks out by six inches, and a stomach clearly displaying last night’s dinner mixed with this morning’s breakfast.

“You ignorant child.” The teacher is staring at me, firing a fully loaded gun of dreadful words.

I have been in this room seventeen times, and seventeen times have I worn the awful uniform of black tights and a white shirt. My nerves respond to the sensation of the sweat migrating from the depth of my pores to the tip of my nose. A mixture of colognes and deodorants floats freely into my overworked nostrils. My legs have the power of the sun; my ankles are as fragile as glass. Every time I bend my legs and push the ground away with all my might, I take myself to the past. I detach from the ground and my short-lived battle with gravity begins. As I begin to lose the all-out war, memories of the past flash through my mind. I see a moon on an ocean. The water moves so slowly that I see the moon’s reflection as if on glass. My feet roll down and my ankles bend. Gravity crashes down onto my ankles; the pain runs through my entire leg and I am forced back to the present.

“You don’t deserve that scholarship.”

The words being yelled at me scrape the inside of my brain, clawing at the emotional barriers I have put up. I repeat the combination countless times; gravity 24

continues to pound the will out of me. I have no emotional support; it seems as though the San Francisco Ballet is out to get me. My parents are back in Portland, carrying on with their daily lives.

I look at the man conducting the class. I see last night’s dinner mixed with morning’s breakfast in his stomach. His golden complexion is accentuated by the sun gleaming behind him. Jorge does sixty pushups every day, but not a single crunch.

He smells of fresh air, left over from his motorcycle ride to the studios. He is staring straight at me; I am weak to his will.

“You are the worst dancer I have ever seen; you don’t listen to anything I ever say.”

I stare back. The most important rule of ballet runs through my brain: always agree with the teacher, always agree with the teacher. My mind retreats to the furthest depth it can go. My ears muffle the sounds being yelled at me. I am surrounded by a sea of eyes; gravity has left me vulnerable and defenseless to the teacher’s words. I stand frozen waiting for this awful scene to end.

At the end of class, I leave my stuff where it is and quickly grab my phone. I run outside in my tights and walk behind an alley and squat into a tight ball. I quickly dial my mom, holding back the tears that are about to burst. I tell her that I can’t do it anymore, that my ankles feel like glass shattering from the powerful hit of a careless child, and that I don’t want to dance. She reassures me, but nothing more.

“It’ll be alright,” she says, “just pull up those bootstraps and keep going.”

I hang up and look at my feet; my arches are beginning to send pain through my body. The sun is hidden under clouds; my happy memories are buried deep inside me. Thunder roars overhead, shaking my soul loose from its spot of security. Cars drive by but do nothing. I feel no reassurance from my mom, or the countless doctors that have told me that everything will be okay. My emotional barriers are broken and gravity has won. I feel the beginning of the end engulfing my body. As the tears begin to roll down my pale cheeks, I smell them mixing with the sweat dried onto my face.

As soon as my soul hits the bottom of my stomach I am sent into a state of uncontrollable shaking.

I expand my body into a standing position. The waterfall of tears has run dry.

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My mind begins to peek out of the hole it burrowed into. The roaring clouds thunder back at the teacher. I start the trek back to the studio; each step brings a token of confidence. By the time I make it to the doors of the San Francisco Ballet, I feel determination running through my veins. My feet and ankles are tingling of numbness, my hands are shaking from the self-assurance I have given myself. I open the doors and walk inside.

I am giving myself a new beginning. I see Jorge approaching, I give him a slight smile; he turns and starts his descent on the stairs. The sound of him proceeding down the stairway makes me feel like I am on top of the world. The taste of victory runs through my mouth. My stomach growls at his shadow. Clouds lay a path to my lunch. As I bite into my sandwich, my friend lays his hand on my shoulder and tells me that it will be okay. As I experience the reassurance of my friend’s hand resting on my shoulder, a new idea comes into sight.

I decide my own life.

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