grab my hand. palm sweaty. spin in circle. jive to the white album. “ob la di, ob la da, life goes o-on!” crammed in a living room with john george ringo and paul. reincarnate as members of the ssri’s. dananananana na na. “you know it’s your birthday, we’re gonna have a good time!” candles. 1.5 litres of something white and delicious. legs crossed with polka dot gown hemmed oh-so short. black ink bleeds across stretched cotton. re-branded. you look chipper. more chipper than you did on wednesday after you’d finished a depressing 3 hour seminar with climate skeptics. draining. a reunion. “well i… feel like an old hobo.” and that’s why i’m moving to cuba. cuba? mexico. goodbyes. wind whipped sails and bug bitten ankles. wake up on a cliffside bluff, tucked between old firs and wrinkled red arbutus. honey drenched granola back on deck. nothing tastes better than salty ocean air. it locks your curls into tangles. red hair flashes under neon lights of The Keys. tall trees and skateparks. “mmm, that stuff gives you a terrible hangover.” your project is two days late. he draws an interior map on the back of a scribbled agenda. renovations and fall parties. you’re invited. you know that life you wanted? you’re living it. but let’s not sound too self-congratulatory. “i get these bells going off sometimes… and i’ve learned to trust them.” when on earth will cafés learn that Frank Sinatra’s time is over?

blog post. review. interview. scheduling. desk, transparent public conversation piece, management. muscle carving. 1st place in the chainsaw competition. learning through osmosis. “i’m going to be a part of it, new york. nwwwwwyrrk.”



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