Read? Work? This is my choice.

There are so many unanswered emails. A never-ending list of things, listed endlessly on my endless lists of things to do. Shall I tend to them tonight, with the last free moments of the day ticking slowly down? Shall I even, say, practice an instrument, or write a song?

No, no no. Not at the end of this dry, windy day. I shall instead pour myself another glass of stale beer from this old growler, dream about shaping myself into one of these people, and eat (almost) the tiniest slice of this, which is most certainly not raw and not vegan. Then I’ll pick up a book made out of actual pages of actual paper and read, snuggling with a tiny naked chihuahua. And nothing else.

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