Ten.Two Thousand, Seven Hundred & Nineteen
Sore and I’ve just woken up.
Walking up this hill is still so hard. Why?
It looks like they made it in time.
Popcorn. It’s the real butter. And the salt. Can’t stop eating it.
I feel like I’ve worked a whole day in four hours. Is it Friday yet?
The freedom of freelance.
She says we’re a well-oiled machine; that it’s like watching choreography. I know he doesn’t really want to hear it, but the reality is that we do good work together.
But what do we want?
Goodbye-bottles of Schramsberg.
“She doesn’t have any feeling for art.”