I was living to be inspired. To fall in love with an idea, to pass on a gift I’ve gotten when I have nothing left but experiences, words, passion, stubbornness. The first performing arts center. That’s the hill I wanna die on. The light I reach for. A spotlight to shine on others, that will go on burning and shining and showing after I’ve gone. We show who we are, or who we’re not. Do you like my mask? Would you like the mirror? I want this and I want to go on wanting it with the passion I do now. I am going to deputise people into keeping my passion alive, and aim as high as I fucking can. I learned that. Don’t hold back on my ambitions, don’t listen to haters, don’t damp my light, love the goal more than I mind the pain or struggle or heartache or personal inconveniences or bills or anything and do the thing that would make me break into my own apartment and go without heat, food, friends, love, anything. If I love the thing so much I want it to exist no matter what I will die to make it real. A simple performing arts center. A window to another world. A wardrobe. Costumes. Imagination. I’ve been building to this since I was tiny. I’m remembering shit I tried to stage when I was six, before things got really bad and the cult took off and hijacked my theatricality for self-destruction. I will romanticise the fuck out of making this real. This will be my dream in the dark and the light. Please, stay alive, dream, and I will try to feed and water you every day. Blood, sweat, tears, hell or high water. I love the theatre. I love performance. Let me infect someone with the itch before I expire.