I am in a room where there are jobs laid out on a table, along with notebooks. I am going over the various job descriptions, trying to find one that looks like it would be a good fit for my skills. After working my way around the extensive table, I try to return to one that is either a teaching or administrative job (or something that blurs the lines between the two) but the table is being cleared, the papers returned to various binders. I tell the man who is trying to clear up the opportunities that I had found one and to please allow me to look through the notebooks to see if I can find it. He directs me to a shelf with a lot of binders, most of them unfortunately are white. I start looking for the one in which I will find the job when I see a few notebooks similar to the ones I used to carry for writing my poetry. I open them and there are my poems, my journals, my writing. I grab them and set them aside, all three, and say, “These are mine and don’t belong here.” No matter how hard I continue searching, I cannot find the binder with the job opportunity and eventually I have to give up.