Such a strange existential dilemma. I spend hours looking at this hole and poking at it with my fingers. I know that I cannot “have” a hole, as a hole is not a thing that can be had. A hole is an absence. And yet this is supposed to be a list of the things I want, and I want this hole in the hardwood floor the way Gandhi wanted peace. The way the dog wants to lick my face. The way my mother wants me to stop pulling off her eyeglasses.