The Here

In 2019 I wrote something telling. A single verse.

“I don’t like people

What do you want me to say?

I could lie and say that I do

Cause lying’s my main thing”

I don’t leave my house. Anyone that knows me knows that I don’t. The only time when I do is when I have to work, and that means an uber to the airport.

I have a car that I never drive, so much so the battery dies. I rarely get the mail - it’s all junk anyway. My house looks perfectly fine if I’m not wearing my glasses. I don’t like to wear my glasses when I’m at home.

I fuss over my cat, his health (he’s 18), good whiskey, and writing as much as I can every day.

My dreams are highly intense and entirely strange, moving constantly between bizarre themes. I take Methroprazine to seep, which is probably why.

I daydream of living in Palermo. Some tiny house or apartment. Of slow mornings drinking espresso in a square or on some ancient street. Drinking Birra Ichnusa in the afternoons with lunch. Fresh seafood or duck Ragu for dinner.

Life made perfectly simple. No hurry, just the seconds ticking away slowly. A day longer than a day, and every day following.