I worked late this Friday, with a little Cynar and some potato chips and my feet tucked up underneath me -- no matter what I do, my toes are always cold.
It was simple. And sometimes I think this simple is wrong; I let the guilt of it turn to fear that I'm wasting or running out of time. There's been a lot of such guilt untethering over these months. Am I measuring up. Am I making right decisions. Do right decisions even exist where art is concerned.
And isn't life art? The imperfections and places that stick out. Maybe without them, all we'd have is white noise.