I am idly drawing with a lavender crayon on the paper tablecloth at Funny Bar. I am watching Christian Marclay’s The Clock from 2:45-4 PM in a plush beige seat at MoMA on a winter Sunday. I am sipping a pumpkin spice latte in January; the barista at Starbucks told me to keep it a secret because they aren’t supposed to sell them anymore, it’s too late in the season. I am sharing homemade lemon frosting cookies with the neighbors. I am journaling at a pub in midtown while drinking a Peroni draught and eating Cajun spice fries. I am obsessively scrolling Reddit, hoping that someone might have all the answers, but no one does. I am strongly considering going to a psychic, but I’m afraid of what I might learn. I am waiting, constantly, for a specific text or call or email that doesn’t seem to be coming. I am stepping on salt in my penny loafers, watching the ground turn white. I am tracing a butterfly in the snow. Soon it will melt or be covered. But right now, it is perfect.
