I forgot his face, again.
Metra, L, Pace, are funk massive.
Snow, ice rain, pollen, sun weather.
Exploration, rumination, finding a niche possible.
Best day in a longtime of best days. Exploration, art, conversation, food, befuddlement, poetics, love, stories, and all the spaces in between, and come what may. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QYEC4TZsy-Y&feature=youtube_gdata
Dear Miss Manners, I’ve been boarding with a kind, generous family for three months. We get along great. Is it too soon for me to unwrap the Sunday Times? Signed, Impatient for Paper
Chinese viejita on a BMX bike.
Airborne fecal matter fog the streets.
Neighborhood bars play punk rock anthems.
Aggressive house cat claws for love. Window displays lean toward caged madness.
Doors opening into streets are homes.
I am courageous and humble, and possess the patience and fortitude I need to identify and acquire a great job that allows me to be of service and grow, and that pays a fair wage based on my experience.
Still this.
Broken nib nit pit point
My last Extra Fine Sharpie
It’s dead. I killed it.
Stabbed it.
I put it to death.
I wrote nothing and nonsense into the page and then the pen broke in my hand.
The last passage I copied was:
“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other” Hemingway (A Moveable Feast, 1964)
I wrote nothing and nonsense into the page and then the pen broke in my hand.
The last wounds wrought upon the paper, by the empty pen were: “muscle on.”
