We believed in "fake it till you make it" without really knowing what we were making. Or what we were faking. Behind these out-turned palms are dirty, unflossed smiles. And behind that, no one really knows.

I sat next to a woman at the bus stop. She was breastfeeding, the tiny lips of a pink mass of burrito searching, anticipating, suckling, all underneath a baby blue towel. Baby blue. What about that color was ever for babies?

And between the palms and the no-one-really-knows were little untold secrets. At least that's what she thought, and from mother to child, thoughts passed down to the pink burrito.

So I am left faking something I don't know to make something else I don't know.

And I guess I fucking love it.