one who sleeps on couches

It’s funny how sometimes time beats your best intentions six-love and you’re left wishing something else would have happened.

I’ve walked, limped, and crawled through Chicago spaces and I can tell you with all honesty we were kidding ourselves.

Fiction is its own self-reflective surface, which obviously becomes more and more tenable the more your stories match what I consider to be real.

I am done with that, the Hyde Park limbo, three pitchers here and nine shots there. It turns out that drunken smart people and drunken street people display similarly short attention-worthy behavior.

Not that I have much to say.

I continue down this path of doing things that I enjoyed and seriously contemplated, and then acting in such a manner that cannot account for the enjoyable, contemplative thing I did.

Think about Nelson Mandela.