I wanted to write a piece about what it might be like living as an artist in a socialist nation. I wanted to make five tins of fudge and fold all the laundry. I wanted to sand that slice of oak from my grandparents' forest until it was smooth and soft and glassy. I wanted to send out letters telling people what happened all year and I wanted to make it to the gym and to give blood and have a new key made and get stamps at the post office. I wanted more day in this day.