I wrote a poem in my closet this morning. Thinking of entering it in a few festivals, maybe Cannes, I don't know. I'm not really ready for all that fame and success. In the meantime… life goes on.
It’s too hot to be outside for any reason.
It will be years yet before El Matador experiences the horror of The Last of Us and the utterly soul-crushing death march of its sequel, and I can't help but envy that kind of ignorance. For him, the world is still a wonderful, friendly, and inviting place.