I take stock of the past week. Edited manuscripts, jumbles turned into semi-coherence, ready for authors to hate again. Fatherly words. Weak, selfish, you owe me visits. Teaching applications at elegant institutions rejected again.
Fragments of slumber. Corpses of Diet-Pepsi.
Half an onion, three lone Wheat Thins, mustard stains.
A bank account in the low double-digits.
Several long-maxed out credit cards, orange, purple, navy blue. Three remain.
Promises whisper, a new week beckoning. Tabula rasa. Smile. The world loves smiles.
Good things come to energetic, proactive people. Promises sharp, uneven, promises I pick up again and again.
They still cut.