life drafts

I make drafts. Drafts of pictures, pictures of people, people from random walks. Drafts of abstract things, drafts of words, words and more words. Drafts that I open and read through from time to time, adding or removing sentences, erasing the drooped corner of the mouth, shading the eyebrow. Satisfied briefly, I save it, and keep it that way for now.

What will you do if you wake up one morning and find that your life is a draft, that the real thing has yet to come?