The russet sheen of this cowskin in its knifed curves against the pale, scuffed floor. The plastic sole of the lovely girl’s boots, the cinnamon glow of her hair gathered carelessly into a bun on the back of her head. The pale pink and blue glow of the sky, fingerling trees clean against it and the faint, faraway buzz of a paper-cutout airplane above. Overly lush, seductively lovely songwriting in my headphones singing something about worshiping at her shrine, and I think with sudden peace of the totality of existence and how little I manage to sink into it. Today, I sink in. I feel the pained curve of my ankle, the short breath of composition, the satisfaction of blurting forth even one rich paragraph of description, the knowledge that I deserve, I am born to this, I am a writer with every breath, and that it is time for me to continue being me, no holds barred, no need to apologize, no need to even assess, but simply to exist in fullness.

And now, it is time to thread forth a new story, a new work. Nothing matters now except creation. I leave tracks behind me. I exist.

early morning / Portland, OR / Good Coffee