It's not life, sweetie. It's you.

Free writing.
Free thinking.
Free anxiety.
Not stopping.
Letting it all out.
Like a breath.
Like a sigh.
Like a moment.
It says bye.
That it'll try.
Get un-preoccupied.
Because FYI.
There's no more time.

Smutty.
Stubby.
Slutty.
Study.

Is that even a hobby?

Eat real fast,
eat real hard.
Eat like trash,
Eat, like, carbs.

An FDNY firefighter died while battling that fire I smelled around my neighborhood in Harlem last night.

It's all so sad...rest in peace, Michael Davidson.

I just got back home from a work trip to Toronto. Halfway during the Uber ride back to my place from Laguardia, a number of firetrucks with their sirens and lights blaring passed by. I didn't think anything of it but when I stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk of my block, the smell of a fire somewhere was instant. There's still a faint sound of helicopters hovering somewhere nearby.

Not.
Note.
Nope.

"The phrase keeps flying around in my head like a bat, fluttering and flapping and slapping at the corners of an attic."

From the book Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jesmyn Ward. Page 169.

A new way to do jack shit.

Gluten galore.

There's nothing that humming can't get you through.

"Wait for it."

From so many good memes.

Well then, what is it you'd like to do all day, Johnny?

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