Ten.Six Hundred & Thirty-Nine
Bacon and potatoes? It feels too early to wake everyone with the sound of the coffee grinder.
I need to find some more poetry today. “To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” - Robert Frost
There are people but not too many just yet. I tuck myself into the corner of the high bar and order a chai latte. The only thing about not working at home is the cost of the coffee.
Distressed black jeans, black shirt, black sweater, tan flats. My kind of color palette. Maybe I will find my kindred in Brentwood after all.
I tell him that I’ve realized that I work so much better outside of the home. Two hours of intense focus in the coffee yields the same amount of work as 12 hours sitting at home. How do I make this more of a thing? When could I afford co-working space? Is there co-working space around here? So many things to think about.
Distillery 209 Gin, Fever Dream Mediterranean Tonic, juniper berries, a slice of grapefruit, a sprig of rosemary, un flor de pensamiento.
One day I’ll become fluent in Spanish.
My first baseball game. I’m cold. Shivering, actually. I forget how competitive I am until I’m at something like this.
But I do know what I want. I just know that no one else will understand. But there’s a different way to do all of this. I believe that.