When I was a child, perhaps sick or just a rainy day, my mother would give me books for coloring, stickers, puzzles, no doubt to keep me quiet for hours.

I’d happily choose my crayons and color within the lines, lick and place the stickers where they belonged, bringing life to a page filled with only dashed lines. Methodically, I’d connect the numbered dots with my fine-tipped pencil, sometimes guessing what would appear, sometimes surprised–a giraffe! a birthday cake! a clown!

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But I’m old now. Having followed the rules I learned so well, I know little reward. Connecting the 55 dots has revealed no picture, invisible meaning, mystery buried in temporal living. Meaningless points in space. No point, really. Random dots breaking the promise.