Maybe one day I will learn how to prioritize myself. Restitch the sagging weight under my eyes and pin it up so that I actually look alive. Eat on a schedule structured by the celestial bodies in the sky instead of an arbitrary set of times that fall in between work and the busy affairs of life. Maybe one day, these mechanized arms will feel bones sprout through their wires, and breathing will come more easily, sparing the smoke. I say one day like it’s something I can afford to put off. I wonder how many more tomorrows it will take before I decide that one day will be too late.