Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand; I grind you up like hard-to-swallow pills.
It was cold enough to go outside in long sleeves and a jacket. I had the day off, I took two walks. I liked covering myself in layers. I felt like a precious chocolate. You spend a lot of time trying to get out of your own skin. I passed three people in the neighborhood, all were wearing coats.
I spent most of my afternoon submitting work to lit journals. Pop a fresh bottle of fizzy water, put on a podcast, click tabs. It was a menagerie of websites. Here’s what I saw: two dozen banner pics of prairies; a handful of low-res site splashes; so many drop-downs like a fold-out wallet; design work from the early aughts, charming; design work from last month’s redesign, intimidating. It got me thinking: who reads all these things? Not me. Or at least, not as much as I ought to. I pick up my subscriptions and start a few pieces. Then life barges in the room with this or that distraction and I’m done. I’ve got a pile of unread gems sitting on the bottom of my bookshelf.
Publication’s still the game in 2018, but I can’t help wondering what sort of people I’m trying to hand my heart to.
Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker
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“I’m sippin hard liquor to get my thoughts straight
Road blocked jumping fences when the cops chase
Got cognac in my cup don’t know how scotch taste” – Rich Homie Quan, Thoughts