In the sky. Somewhere between earth and atmosphere.
A blade of grass. A water drop courses down the top, gets heavy, soaks into the dirt.
Wanting to be home when I am outside, coming home from work. Traveling… with others, wanting to be home, and not traveling.
Everybody’s on their way toward something, while inevitably, disappearing in the moment, becoming nothing. Nihilists. I hope I find another person who wants to somewhat exist.
Today, we are nothing. When yesterday, we could have been something.
Journalistic Writing
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