Listening to Daniel Johnston at 5am.
Black coffee in a red Coyote Blood mug.
Reading Danielle Altman's piece "Fake Blake" while taking a shit.
Laughing aloud at the Geddy Lee posters part.
I used to live in stories like these.
Hipster youth choose-your-own-adventures.
The poems had their own life.
Never about horses, flowers, beauty and, like, nature.
Always about working; the labor of just living every day.
Being young was fun. Being young was dumb. So is love.
Not anymore. I want wisdom.
But Taylor Swift songs and suburban sunrises aren't so bad.
My brutal companion is writing.
Heavy with grief as of late.
And the curse of ambition as of always.
But the magical, quiet morning hours still king me.