115 degrees. Getting too hot outside for night walks.
Friends graduating, summer projects picking up, Peace Corps application submitted. Didn’t recognize myself in the mirror the night before last. It wasn’t a dramatic experience; very matter-of-fact. This is how I look now. Kind of like my father, kind of not.
Sometimes it feels wrong to be an artist. Sometimes it feels wrong not to be an artist.
Staying with family for two days. The cat is meowing in the hallway, looking crazily from wall to wall, listening to its own echo.
Everything feels poetic lately, except poetry. Especially the surreal headlines I’ve encountered today: