I can’t decide about my phone because it allows the internet to happen at me. People, & crafting Twitter-sized messages, make me so tired.

Things seem to occur instantaneously these days, but I still need a couple hours, or weeks, to respond to text messages.

Many poems must be read slowly & repeatedly to be fully understood, and this is one of those kind.

So right now, stop, & begin again—this time aloud. That way, you live a life centered on art forever.

Even if your boss walks in. Because who actually reads poems? And if you're one of those kind, your employers must value your deeply contemplative mind.

One coworker complains about the UI, but I’m just the tech writer. For a man who uses the word pedantic so frequently, he has a bafflingly low level of self-awareness.

Though I’ve never spoken to him, I dislike another man due to his ill-fitting pants, & face.

It could be I’m suffering from too many hours of sitting & fluorescent light.

I have so many batteries to maintain, they’ll never be full at the same time.

I just need a tiny room with wide storm windows & an ominous door where I’m allowed as much time as I need to think.

No matter how sad I get, I'm always grateful to not be anyone else, or have to wear their stupid sunglasses.