It occurred to me while driving home from the grocery store that I
am finally beat, in the Kerouac sense of the word. There's no bullshit
left in me. I'm not capable of an insincere smile or anything but
There are three Starbucks double shots in my fridge. I plan to try and
write an essay on a passage from "A Midsummer Night's Dream"; it's a
difficult essay to write because the passage is perfectly clear and I
don't have five pages to say about it. My plans for publishing my
poetry book are going well.