The pencil tip leads nowhere, is nothing. A funnel of mathematical points, infinitely small, narrowing to a single impossible point. It is a school bus full of the unborn souls of children not yet conceived, a Saharan waterslide, the funny unreliable wand of the sorcerer’s apprentice. Still, when I guide it, it glides–agile as an ice-skater–over the unknown tundra. The graphite tip is compressed, potent, a shaman’s rattle full of his enemies’ knucklebones. I hover over the paper the way a mother robin hovers over her chick, knowing instinctively that regurgitation will help the small ball of feathers find flight. All around we two, supporting us visibly, woven into the structure under our stick feet, bits of the world peep out; a stolen watch fob, a torn open Mars bar wrapper tucked tight, twigs that never grew into branches. Carefully and deliberately, I push the baby from the nest.