I thought it was time I had a pinned post explaining what happens here.
Imagine a toddler came up to you, handed you a scrap of paper, awkwardly lurched away, then came back again with another scrap of paper. And another. And another. And another.
When you opened the scraps, they're pictures ripped out of catalogues or scribbled colourings or old grocery lists or whatever. Some are bright. Some are dark. Some have writing on them. Some make no sense whatsoever. And you didn't really have the time to focus on one, because whoops, there's another one being handed to you.
You don't know why the toddler keeps handing them to you. They haven't made them. You don't see a particular through-line with them. Sometimes there are a lot, sometimes there are less of them. But it just keeps happening, as if there's an immense pile of scraps waiting to be handed to you, an endless queue waiting for that chubby hand to pick one up and hand it over.
Kate, late 40s, transplanted Southern Californian now living in the land of medieval hoodlums. Knows too much about the Internet.
