No Prompt Necessary

just a girl raging in an A.I. world

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  • One More Hour

    I was disappearing. 

    But this time it was happening at a faster rate

    wind whistling through rotted bones

    The remnants of my skin hanging loosely like paper chains from my body 

    The whispering tree

    the rustling of my skin sounds like a whispering tree. 

    I hope my death feels like the morning after a sleepover. 

    Crusted eyes and bleary faces, begging my mom to stay for just one more hour. 

    Knowing the answer already. 

    Behind her the car purrs and your siblings bicker from the back seat. 

    Next time honey, she says. 

    You turn around and run to your best friend, grabbing her lithe frame and tugging it towards you. Thank you for having me,

    Thank you for coming. 

    My mom reaches her hand out for me to take it. 

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • Oh And

    That’s my fucking shirt you bitch I hate you thats why he left you thats why all your friends hate you and I cant believe you’d be such a sniveling snake and go behind my back and take it from my closet and

    He said what to you? Send me his number I’ll pretend to be a lawyer and serve him digital papers and while you’re at it send me his address I know someone from Lynn who would be happy to take care of it for you and I told all my friends and posted it on my account everyone is reporting his account and spamming him at this rate we are gonna be the ones getting reported for hate speech and I messaged his mom on Facebook and told her what he said and

    Did you hear what mom said about my room As If she understands what im going through im so stressed and she doesnt get it oh my god I know right remember when she told us to eat that nasty oatmeal with sugar free jam and we dumped it all down the sink drain and it clogged everything and we never told her and 

    I was playing that piano piece that we said would be our funeral barge and February 23 has come and gone 21 times now and we are still going strong and obviously if you needed like a lung I would give it to you no questions asked but if you want my lip liner you’ll have to wait for the next blue moon what You already used it Great thanks a lot now I have to throw it away and burn the bin yes im actually going to throw it away there it goes and no dont you dare fish it out it’s not yours now it’s my trash You insipid little rat get back here this is why no one loves you and why Mr. Fabian gave you a B that one time and

    I miss living with you in one house and waking up to play our lego house and peeling the tinfoil off of Lindt chocolate wrappers and dressing up our dolls in them jeez we were so thrifty and nifty even though I hated living with you in one apartment two huge souls crammed into a one bedroom never works out well no never works out well but a big house would do yeah I think that would do two huge souls and one grand villa on the lake with a stream and a river running by and a deep forest and berries aplenty and a beach down that path that we walk with our horses and a huge shower with built in speakers for you yeah yeah I cant see myself living without you and

    Ugh stop talking to me cant you see im reading Stop coming into my room and yammering about pilates and finance and all the connections you’ve made because This book is getting so good and you’re distracting me and 

    Wait actually you really remind me of this one character she’s so strong and beautiful and everyone is obsessed with her and wait actually she reminds me so much of you and

    How do you always help me with math like seriously whats up with that how are you so good at math all the axes and the functions the sets and the foils and when letters replace numbers you’d think id be good at that but thoughts are like pennies and we are like beggars waiting to be rich or no thoughts are like wishes and we are beggars who are rich and

    If you know this is a public space and im watching my show why on earth would you come play piano right next to me really And during the good part like wow you really are just out to get me huh you just hate me and want me to die huh and

    Um is she seriously wearing that Dots and stripes oh my god she looks like a poisonous jungle jeez everyone needs someone in their life to tell them the truth even when its brutal and harsh and

    Im so lucky to have you even when we’re just atoms of dust floating through some void that’s probably a black hole but we are too proper to call it that never call a spade a spade or a black hole a black hole it’s just not done no it’s just not done but im still gonna turn and ask you if you remember that time we rolled down the stairs holding onto each other like we were kolobok and then we’ll laugh and laugh and then oh my god are those my shoes? 

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • Time Stands Still

    I remember it was snowing. When I met my best friend’s friend earlier. They were outside her building smoking cigarettes and I was stopping by. She introduced us, 

    “Ava, meet Eva.” She snorted at that. 

    I could tell right away something was off with Ava. Anita had asked her to hold her water bottle while she fished in her bag for a cigarette for me, and, and there was something about the way she was holding it. As if at any moment someone else would offer to hold it, and bear the burden themselves. Her arm outstretched in front of her, as if she was already handing it away. And her whole body was so tense. And her voice when she accepted was very thin, reedy. She stood with the obvious hope that someone else may take up the harrowing task of carrying her friend’s water bottle. This was probably the closest I ever came to understanding her. 

    We all walked up the narrow stairs to Anita’s place while she told me about the pregnancy scare she was having. Not the first, but I couldn’t blame her. She was a girl with a lot of love to give. We followed Anita to the bathroom and I leaned on the heater while Ava busied herself fixing her hair. Anita made quick work of peeing, and then inserting the stick. We waited the minutes in silence. 

    I pondered the quickness with which life could be created. Meaningless smear of cock against opening and then…Unbidden images were coming to mind. Of cum smeared along the walls, along every surface it seemed there was sweat, discharge, menstrual fluids. I could feel the remnants, the echoes, all the unseemly, grisly forces which had once been here. All of a sudden I was disgusted, and felt like throwing up. I held Anita’s hand anyway.

    We all studied the end of the stick. The test was negative. My breath came easier. Ava started laughing, and then Anita joined in.

    We went to a party that night, that’s the last normal thing I ever really did in my life. Went to a party. Sounds pretty shit when you say it like that. Anyway, it was at this guy’s house. Anita had been seeing him on-and-off for a few months. Nothing serious. Well, besides the potential pregnancies. The air smelled like a childhood cold. The house was engulfed in warmth, even from a distance. I could see people weaving in and outside, sans jackets. Music blared through the speakers and I wondered which of the neighbors would be the first to crack. 

    He met Anita at the front door and they made out, sloppily. Ava let out a boisterous whoop and pranced into the house, heading towards what must have been the kitchen. The house was messy in the way you’d expect, but I could tell it was happily lived in. Red, fizzy liquid sloshed in plastic cups as Ava returned, thrusting one of the drinks in my direction. The red substance went down smoothly and I smacked my lips, already my body beginning to dance. We swayed there, in the doorway, the three of us. Back and forth our bodies swayed, Anita shaking her ass and Ava and I just floating through the air. And then everything just, stopped. I could tell I wasn’t the normal level of drunk, surmising that Ava must have dosed our drinks. With what, I never found out. 

    Then it was only Ava and I dancing. I spun around, searching for Anita but she was gone. And I realize now that I really, really should have looked for her, but at that moment I was too far gone to care. People were frozen in place, once gyrating bodies now still. Ava grabbed my hand and pulled me into a spin. We join hands and swing our arms over our heads in the same direction, twisting our bodies and spinning as all little girls had once done as kids. 

    The Stillness was thick, though not as silent as I’d have expected. Sweet somehow. Thick, and sweet in the way the Great Molasses Flood must have been. Sticky, sickeningly sweet syrup spilling into the streets and suffocating, strangling, the passersby. Hasty in its indifferent violence, it rages down your throat, and melds itself to your organs, to your veins. Until every particle of your body has been replaced with the thick, sugary substance. 

    Yes, an important distinction, I think. That this absence of time was sweet, and it reminded me of the сгущенка I used to gather on a spoon and drizzle back into the can. Only to see the wonderful patterns the condensed milk made as it fell home. 

    Ava was going through everybody’s pockets. She seemed only to be interested in the illicit narcotics in the party-goers possession, disdainfully tossing anything else she found. I had this niggle in the back of my mind as though I was forgetting something important. Though for the life of me I could not remember what it was, only that whatever it was, had left an impression somewhere, a dent in my brain, that made it very hard to focus on what Ava was telling me. And then as suddenly as I had almost remembered,  I instantly forgot, joining Ava on the couch instead to indulge. 

     The hours passed, or I suppose, rather, that they didn’t. I couldn’t tell the difference, but Ava probably could. We did all the uppers first, and when the itchy come-down started, we topped up with the downers. My eyes were struggling to process my surroundings. It was as though I was back in high school, smoking a joint in a sunroom in the summer, rays of light filtering through the windows and filling the room with a soft, glowy haze. I was seventeen different kinds of fucked up and even God herself couldn’t hold back the smile peeling my lips apart, the peals of shrieking laughter bubbling up inside of me. It was always going to end like this, a negative pregnancy test and a red drink. I feel like I’ve forgotten something. 

    The days passed much like this, or I suppose, rather, that they didn’t. It was a blur of empty mansions and stolen ball gowns, garish makeup and lots of sledding. We stole cars and I drove us around. Ava didn’t know how to drive but she begged me to floor it. I think we both just wanted to feel something. Once, we were sitting outside on a park bench,  smoking cigarettes. I hadn’t seen a soul besides Ava since…since it all stopped. 

    “I don’t like this anymore.”  I breathed.

    “Did you know, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say something like you really mean it? Thank you.” I never saw her again, she snuck out while I was sleeping and disappeared. I remember that just at that moment, on the bench, it began to snow again.

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • Marybell

    It’s the first time I’ve ever hated being at the terrasse. I hate this D.J. with his afro-house Euro-summer beats and I hate the flowing drinks and the men eyeing me from the bar. I hate my friend sitting across from me holding my hand and telling me it’s okay. I hate the group of beautiful girls taking videos next to us and I hate the stupid waitress who looks frightened to approach me. I hate this terrasse. I hate the tears streaming down my cheeks leaving rivers of cheap mascara and salt painting my lips. I hate the heaving gasps coming out of my mouth. I can’t get enough oxygen and she keeps telling me to breathe. I don’t want to breathe. I don’t want to die, but I want to know what it’s like, just for a moment, to have no oxygen in my blood or my brain. I want to abandon this mortal body and float up to join the swimming lights in the sky which blot out any and all stars and barely let in the moon. I miss her. The moon, that is. I wish she could hug me but she doesn’t want to. It’s my fault, I don’t know what I did to deserve her anger. Always the malice, it seems, is directed at me. I feel like I’ve been running down the stairs fearlessly and I’ve just missed a step. And now my foot is flailing in mid-air, I’m swinging my arms reaching for a railing or a hand or anything really to stop my fall, to save me. And here, in this limbo of neither fallen nor stood, I must re-learn everything. I must don a new pair of irises and gaze upon this world with new optics, a world where he is gone and I am here– weeping at a terrasse while the party-goers glare at me suspiciously without making eye contact and give me a wide berth, deciding I’ve imbibed too much tequila and am now sobbing over some boy-toy or my nail breaking. I probably have imbibed too much tequila, but it was between that or relapsing on pills. So I think, for the time-being, I have made the safer choice. 

    I am not good with death. I don’t know many people, or anyone for that matter, who is. But I think I am especially not good with it. I struggle letting anyone in, truly in, and baring the true horrors of my selfish nature to them. So when I do, I never assume they will leave me. There is something to be said about babies and object permanence and the spectrum of delusion from which I operate. I invite a man over that night, though I had invited him already before I found out. I don’t want him there anymore but I don’t want to be alone even more so I make him wait outside my door as I sit in my lobby waiting for my tear-tracks to dry pale against my bronzed skin and my lip to stop quivering. He crushes me to his chest and calls me his poor baby. I spend the night weeping in his lap, crying on the floor of my shower while he strokes my back and the water sluices down my face and makes his fingers stick as they pass over my skin, gently, so as not to shatter my crystalline form. I have not fully grasped that I will never see him again, never stroke his soft fur and indulge in his quiet grumbles. Never feel his comforting weight on my chest and pick his fur from the gloss on my lips. I can think about none of this, I can only cry. 

    When he visited my apartment I gave him my worst container to drink from, I was reluctant to give him a nice bowl. I didn’t like wasting my filtered water on him, thinking only of the $2.13 it costs and the effort it takes to lug it from the store down the street back to my place. I am filled with such intense self-loathing, I have never been more aware of how selfish I am than now. I wish, I wish, I wish. There is nothing left to wish for. I wish to no longer be right here. 

    I’m not a big crier. Or, rather, I am, but only when consuming media. The smallest sadness or quietest joy in a book or film is enough to send me into shaking sobs. But I didn’t cry when my friend died, and I didn’t cry when my father left, and I didn’t cry when my best friend moved to a different continent. I can not cry for reality, though I’ve tried. I’ve clenched my entire body and played sad Soviet war songs and reminisced about every tragic moment of my life, of which there are many, and nothing has helped. I have tightened my whole body and contorted my face in such a way that it is nearly impossible that I did not, in fact, cry, or have a more unfortunate bodily incident. I did not cry when she first told me he was gone, I did not have any reaction. I went on scrolling through videos on my phone, laughing occasionally. I painstakingly dotted my face with blush and tanner, plopped a touch of highlight on the tip of my nose to fake a natural glow. I painted my eyelashes and combed my eyebrows and then froze them into place with gel. I lined my lips with a dark cherry color and tinted the rest with a mauve-y coral shade. I oiled my hair and carefully adorned my jewels, admiring their shine with raven eyes and the tinkling of the bangles with marauder’s ears. I picked a brilliant blue dress which slouches around my mid-section and gives the illusion of a smaller waist than I have. I skipped high-heels in favor of flat black sandals and admired my reflection for the better part of ten minutes before I was out the door. In fact, I did not even mention to anyone that he was gone until my second drink was well underway and my friend brought up her cat and all of a sudden, unbidden, I was flooded with memory after memory of his eyes and his tail, the pink pads of his paws and his mewling tongue. These images assaulted my senses and I could feel the blood in my veins slow to a lull and my heart slack to a staggering thump, barely enough to keep me conscious. Later that night my boy is holding me in his arms and I tell him I wish he died instead. He laughs and I decide not to tell him I meant it.

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • Shades of Blue

    Rather spontaneously really, my friend and I planned a quick trip to Valencia. I was motivated by my burning desire to swim in the sea, something I can not go too long without before I start to get crabby. The drive was breathtaking, we rode through craggy mountains and past quarries of the brightest blue. As we approached Valencia by way of rental Jeep, however, it began to storm. Lightning, thunder, sheets of rain crashing from the sky, basically the whole nine yards. I kept a calm head, by which of course I mean I started to freak out. I had a full day of outdoor activities planned, namely swimming in the sea. Thankfully I was worried for no reason, it ended up being the most glorious two days of my life so far. We arrived at a beach a little ways away from the main city. The rain was not too heavy, but not too light either. The air was cool, the wind bit at my skin, but as a native New Englander with Soviet blood, I was no stranger to swimming in subpar conditions. I quickly stripped out of my clothes and, laughing and whooping the whole way, dove headfirst into a huge, frothing wave. The water engulfed me immediately in its warm embrace, spindly fingers pulling me down, down, down into the clear depths. I sprung off the sandy bottom and emerged with the next wave. The chilly air nipped and slapped at my wet face, the water was several degrees warmer than the air. Rain pelted my face and the surface of the sea, choppy waves rose up to slap me now and again, and dark clouds loomed overhead. Now, if you’ve never swam in these conditions, I recommend you put down this blog and go find some for yourself. There are no words to describe the humble fear, the deep respect, the absolute clarity of the insignificance of our existence when faced with the mighty force that is a stormy sea. A smile rips my cheeks wide and I feel nearly possessed by the water that seems too warm to be true and a sky that seems so gray it is barely blue. Ok now I’m rhyming so I’m sure you can tell how deeply this affected me. The beach was wider than I’d ever seen, it stretched endlessly in both directions and was empty save for my swimming form. No beach houses, no dogs running amok, just salt, sand, sea, and me! The way I like it best. 

     We could see that the main city of Valencia was no longer under the influence of storm clouds, but rather clear and sunny skies, and so we set our courses for town. My next mission was to try Valencia’s signature cocktail- agua de Valencia. Champagne, gin, vodka, and their specialty- fresh Valencia orange juice. Valencia is also the birthplace of paella, and I love any excuse to dig into a massive pan of paella. Which is exactly what we did. At a quaint restaurant overlooking Playa de la Malvarrosa, I reveled in the cocktail (larger than my head) and the paella (larger than two of my head). The rich flavors melted on my tongue and inspired feelings of nostalgia for somewhere I’d never been. The remainder of the day was spent wandering the city of arts and sciences, marveling at the intricate architecture and futuristic buildings. The reflection pool in the center was filled with bluest of waters and possessed such a mirror-like quality that I was pulled to step onto its idyllic surface and dance to my heart’s content. I settled for twirling and jeté-ing around the plaza until the valencia orange sunset rolled beyond the mountains and darkness blanketed every crevice of the town.

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • First Day Jitters? Bitters? Fritters? Take Your Pick

    My first day I dropped my bags off in my room and promptly headed out into the city center. One train ride later I was in Plaza de la Puerta del Sol, also known as Sol, the bustling center smack dab in the middle of Madrid. Flanking the plaza on all sides are tall, white buildings adorned with the most delicately beautiful of balconies, with ornate whorls and designs carved into the native stone. The whole city is tinged in warm light, from the palest, sweetest yellow, to the most vibrant, terracotta red. A trip to the Plaza de Mayor for a drink and a quick dance in the center is sure to alleviate even the heaviest of ennui. One building boasted Roman inspired frescoes of various mythological figures, I spotted Bacchus and Cupid (and was mighty proud of it). A short walk through mystical, narrow streets lined with colorful apartment buildings had me feeling like a character from one of my favorite fantasy series. I’ve just had a long, arduous journey from the palace, you see? I’m seeking some bread and ale and a place to rest my weary head for the night! And any one of these quaint tabernas, nestled in the most picturesque of alleys,  may have just what I need. And those balconies! Those damn balconies! Death to the death of detail! Whyever did we abandon such stunning architecture in favor of ‘modernity?’ Of straight, rigid lines and stoic boxes with no character to speak of. It infuriates me to no end that we have done away with detail and embraced minimalism. And so, in Spain, my heart is happy. 

    The Almudena Cathedral, in all its Neo-Gothic splendor, was next on my sightseeing list. It was the first cathedral to be consecrated outside of Rome. And its grandeur did not disappoint, tall arches carved out of granite beckoned me to lift my head and marvel at the stained glass frescoes above. A climb up the winding stairs and I was face to face with the Virgin Almudena, though what struck me most were the metal vases surrounding her on either side, topped off with the most intricate, as if woven, flowers. I had the sensation that I could reach out, pluck one from its place, and be met with its sickly sweet aroma.

    After sitting in silence in the pews of the cathedral, a brief reprieve from the vibrance of the city, it was time to visit the Royal Palace. Upon entering the iron gates, I ran swiftly to the most central square in the courtyard. Once I firmly stood on this middle most square, I allowed my imagination to run wild. Could there be leftover blood on this spot from a gory beheading, or other unsavory liquids from a bacchanal? Certainly there was some importance placed on the middle-most square in the center of the courtyard of the Royal Palace? At this point I was sweating through my dress and found it prudent to be enveloped in the welcoming embrace of central air conditioning. The grand arches and staircase captivated me straight away. As I ascended the stairs, my neck craning to capture every detail of the dazzling, gold plated, ceiling, I was immediately overcome by a sense of belonging (turn back now if you don’t like pretentious descriptions). Dressed in a resplendent gown of the brightest pink, climbing the marble steps of the palace, I felt like a queen of old. Like a high priestess arriving home from a marvelous ball, taking her time up the winding staircase, hand pressed to her forehead to stave off the spins. Just a class act, you know? 

    I was told by a friend to always look up when I’m in Madrid, and this is no exception (maybe even the only rule) in the Royal Palace. Every room has elaborate, embellished frescoes painted in the softest pastel shades on high ceilings above. Massive mirrors can be found every three steps so as to better admire the details (and yourself, of course). Glittering chandeliers hang precariously low over dark dinner tables with place settings. As though members of a long forgotten dinner party are set to return from their smoke any minute, come through the heavy velvet (moth-eaten) drapes, and continue their revelry. I found myself aching to play the ancient piano, to try my hand at the frail violin in the glass case. I came to a beautiful window overlooking a courtyard of brilliant white arches and the palace surrounding them and draped my arms over the windowsill with all the grace of a principal dancer. A queen, watching over her loyal subjects. All jokes aside, it was marvelous fun to stroll the palace imagining it to be my home. Setting up shop in my favorite bedroom, the one with hidden passages behind ancient tapestries hanging on the wall, of course. Or taking my coffee in the queen’s sitting room, or reading my favorite trashy romance in the porcelain room.  

    Once I was back in the unrelenting Madrid sun, it became clear how essential some tinto de verano was to my dire situation. After catching a riveting, and bumpy, ride on the back of one of the city’s many electric scooters, and only one comment from a cop telling us “One person only!” I had arrived at my next destination. Terraza Azotea, located on the roof of the Circulo Bellas Artes, was by far the highlight of my day. We started at the terrasse, though the building itself was a marvel to admire after a few cheeky drinks were had. The terrasse was equipped with top of the line technology, misters and fans to chase away the scorching heat. I vowed then and there to bring this inspiring technology back to Montreal and Boston with me. The crowds of terrasse-goers would surely cheer for me then, as they enjoyed their aperitivo while indulging in the cool mist and tanning in the bright sun. Bar tables perched precariously (I am scared of heights, everything was perfectly safe) on the edge of the roof, offering enchanting vistas of the sprawling city. Lounge chairs made up the center, from which I had a perfect view of the deep blue mountain ranges surrounding Madrid, and the perfect opportunity to tan my already browning skin. It was bliss, relaxing high up and away from the hustle and bustle of the lively city below. Up here it was just me, the mist, and the perfectly curated playlist coming from the speakers. Oh, to be a trust fund baby and spend all my days on the terrasse, not a care or a worry in the world. Alas, that was not my fate in this life. Maybe the next, who knows! The other side of the terrasse offered tables at the base of a great statue, a warrior with shield in one hand and spear in the other. It felt very otherworldly, dining under the protection of an ancient warrior as he watched over his city. Perhaps one day during the apocalypse he will come alive (Atlantis reference?) and fight to save the city once more. Again, who knows.

    On the second floor of the Circulo Bellas Artes there were several areas to study and have a coffee. The spaces were beautifully decorated with lush plants and I suddenly found myself seething with envy. People who looked to have just come from school, or on their way to work soon, were simply doing their mundane work in a room that could be worthy of an empress. This was their everyday life. Colluding with ChatGPT under an ornate ceiling, embellished with meticulous gold detailing and offset by the deepest shade of jade. The tallest of ceilings sheltered the tallest of windows, the ceiling arched and pirouetted in the most spectacular of ways. I felt as though I had stepped into a mini version of the Boston Opera House, though this one seemed far finer to me. We could not leave without pretending to belong in this room ourselves, and so I found myself losing not one, not two, but three, very exciting games of chess. Though my good Slavic-daughter-chess-wiz card may have been revoked, I had not laughed so hard nor strained my brain so, in quite some time. As the sun set in brilliant shades of pink and yellow over my first day in Madrid, and the Sol musicians played a touching rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love on my walk back to the metro, all I could do was note the distinct ache in my cheeks that comes from smiling too hard, and for too long.

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.

  • Dreams, Ambitions, and Total Energy Required to Achieve

    I have long been lauded for my going out abilities. My capacity to transform whatever city I live in to a tourist trap extravaganza extraordinaire! To uncover every hidden gem, to rave in old banks and cathedrals, to walk through every opulent museum and theater there is, to eat every delicious meal within the vicinity. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. By which of course I mean I am telling tales. This began a meager two years ago. And lauded is a strong word. At the time I was undergoing a transformation the likes of which I had not seen since 2012. Two transformations even. Possibly a regeneration as well. They had all amalgamated to create one, newfound, sense of obligation. I was relinquishing, advancing, and thus was born, Could Do Without It, and as such, Could Not Do Without It. And so I distinguished very clearly in my life those things which I Could Do Without, and those things without which I Could Not. I now (then) felt obliged to not squander a minute more of my youth and energy. There was too much to see, too much to do, and not nearly enough time to see and do it all! Every moment I was getting older, wrinklier, and more tired. Which is not to say I am not excited to age, don’t get me wrong, I am going to be the glammest damn grandma there ever was. But at the ripe age of eighteen, I had other things on my mind. I had just moved from Boston to Montreal where I would study for four years. But that’s a story for another day

    Now I am on a plane two years later, heading away from Montreal and to Madrid, where I will study for one semester. I am twenty, and I am still on a mission to rest as little as possible, and do as much as I can. This brings me back to my going out abilities. People often question how I do not get tired which always surprises me. I do get tired. I rest by reading, or writing. I rest when I am overlooking a beautiful city from its highest terrasse with a cool Spritz in my hand and a cigarette in the other. I rest when relaxing on the manicured lawns of Park Retiro, sunlight dancing on the Crystal Palace. Or when I’m chatting with the girl next to me on the plane, going over her plans to walk el Camino de Santiago. Is this not the most restful form there is? That which is experiencing? So, when it comes to total energy required to achieve, I would say it amounts to the total energy you are willing to expend.

    © 2025 [No Prompt Necessary]. All rights reserved.