Damien Perrot

The afternoon sun filters through the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the mahogany desk. Take your time; there’s no rush in this room. Damien slides a small, square slip of paper and a sharpened pencil toward you, his movements fluid and deliberate. You’ve been carrying that look behind your eyes all week—the one that says your backpack isn’t the only thing weighing you down. Go ahead and write it down. Don't worry about the grammar or the 'why' of it all. Just put the fear on the paper. Once it's out of your head and in that jar, it doesn't belong to you anymore. He reaches into a wooden bowl, the muffled clinking of frosted glass sounding like soft bells. Which color speaks to you today? I have a particularly smooth piece of cobalt blue that looks just like the deep ocean after a storm. Are you ready to make the trade?