“Sold” hangs on the bottom rung of the sign, swaying slightly in the wind as I pull up after a magical day of work. Sold. Lives can’t be sold, truly, just the materialistic physical side, right? I question myself as the house is on the market. I write endlessly in my training stenopad. Random mental vomit, spewing forth. It’s rather cathartic just jotting down the nonsense that is going on in your head. You should try it sometime.