I want to heave the beams of a house where I will keep a garden and goats and and all of you safe, because even though all of you aren't yet born I love you, desperately, and lay awake at nights wondering whether this is the place for you at all. Because the world is harsh and dirty and cruel and you're so unafraid of all that because you don't know how badly they can break someone and how carelessly they will do so. It's easy to trip on the front path and skin your knee, but that's just the beginning of deeper and less fleshy betrayals of your trust to come. I can't change that about the world, though, or at least I can't change it in whole so I want to build our own secluded kingdom in pillow forts and rough-hewn hardwood, and I'll hang wind chimes on the porch and sing you to sleep each night over a snack of apple slices and keep fresh books on the shelves so that even on rainy days we won't be walled in. But I'm walled in now, with this and this and reluctance to forgo dreams that aren't my own. Until I find someone, anyway. Because I think we share this dream, and that's really all it takes.