The morning

Whether golden or grey

Is always full of promise

be it city sounds or sea

Or the still mountain

The morning is new

The morning is hope

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The inner artist

I prefer abstract art because I am bound and tangled by the rules and details of daily life; taking life and making it abstract, surreal or slightly skewed is a comforting departure from being ensnared in the thorny vines of reality.

I get nervous when cleaning with Comet, as if it’d burn through me if it touched my skin, or somehow sink through three tiny pores and poison me. If you don’t understand the irony in that, it’s not my place to explain it to you. Maybe we’ve spent our youths and Saturday nights in contrast, or perhaps very similar just with a slight change in the minute details of what constitutes the party.