I need to say these things: I bruise easily. Perhaps too easily. I occupy no moral high ground. I need to give people room to fuck up because God knows I have made plenty of room in my life for me to do so. I … I’m trying.
Lately I have been salving my existential scrapes with poems and new music, and finding that both just increase that feeling of dread that always nips at my heels and keeps my mind running running tripping in the alley running. People have asked me recently if I am happy and I find myself unable to even consider that question without hinging it on a cascade of qualifiers. My gut reaction is of course I’m happy,…
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