Here in library school, the mantra goes, “The first semester is hard.” All new students take the same four classes together and it’s murderous then it’s over, and you can move on to courses no less hard but allegedly less intensive. …Was the refrain, almost a point of pride we survived, and kid, you’ll survive too. But the second verse is the same as the first, and of the same ambivalence-inducing character-caliber. I love what I’m doing, which is good, because I do it every day of the week, and if I take a break, sleep in an hour or steal an afternoon of Chinatown sidewalk gawking, I feel guilty for not working and anxious about falling behind, then berate myself for the guilt and hate myself for the doubletime demands to be made on another day.

I have to remind myself to remember: Take pictures. Slow down.

Half the bones in my wrists are fusing, the other half, disintegrating. My mom used to say and heaven knows, still does, “I’m so tired I could cry.”

I wish I had more time.