For the days a restless wanting keeps you reaching, even when your hands are already full.

A warm, steady crimson, more glow than burn, edged in black. It has the heat just off a flame and the dry scent of struck flint.

Restless wanting can feel like drive; mostly it just won't let you land. It can't make more — it holds a warm, steady sense of enough, the kind you can finally stop reaching past.