I sit in the shade outside of the house my words bought, trying to write more words. Even though my words were worthy enough to afford a house with a shaded spot out back and a yard for the kids, I still wonder if they’re good enough. The balcony off of the house that my words built is strong enough to hold my body, and a chair, and some plants, and still I question my words. My words could buy thirty houses and I would still find the quietest corner and worry over the next ones.