I’m sitting on the couch, watching the same TV show that I watched yesterday, and thinking about what exactly I’m doing with myself. Binge watching shit? It’s not even good shit. But everyone else is watching it, and sometimes it feels weird to not do what everyone else is doing, so I keep watching. It’s…
What’s a poem, when a picture can speak without a single letter. What’s a writer, then, but only a sort-of artist. A phony. A fake. A lazy fucking hack. I’m ok with that. I’ve been called worse.