Jul 6, 2017
wanting to die a few months ago
I catch myself standing under a hot shower in the middle of the day. I conclude that it’s something only coddled children, the depressed, or the unemployed are able to do. I let heavy matted hair drip into my eyes and sting as I wonder if it’s weird to just ask someone what their mind has been on. My friend, Miguel Sucio, is in the hospital with two broken legs and I just want to ask him if he sees the world differently now. Certainly he must. Instead we ask each other about our physical days and weeks while the same stumbling answer can always be deducted: “I spend my time making lots of money for someone who doesn’t know that I exist.”
