Vivian has, she thinks to herself during her ride home, a burning need to create something. Work involves endless drudgery, and lately watching TV has not felt much better. She wants to do something. She wants to make art.
It's the first time she's put the thought into words, and it troubles her.
The problem is — she doesn't know how to start, or even what she wants to do. She can't draw, she can't write, she has no tools for painting or pottery, and wouldn't know how anyway.
The realization of what is missing from her life is simultaneously relieving and troubling. She has moved, she thinks as she pulls into the driveway, from the insurmountable barrier of the unknown, to the insurmountable barrier of the known.
It's not an improvement.
She eats dinner in a distracted and perfunctory haze, dishes left on the cluttered counter for later. She showers, forgets whether she's washed her hair in her distraction, and decides she doesn't have the energy to wash it again, just in case. She towels off, brushes her teeth, and falls into bed.
And she dreams.