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.