The music in my ears, my poison of twenty-four years so I don’t have to hear the top forty from the broken ceiling speakers and remember how dumb most of us are, and if this is success, then keep it, and that loud baby and his loud mother, while I’m trying to write well, and why her friend’s breakup had nothing to do with her friend, and oh how good that latte is, and oh how good that latte is a few sips later, and how he just can’t believe the way the world is, all the plastic we eat, 50,000 particles per year if you’re lucky and how he hasn’t had a job in weeks, and all my other thoughts. Groove them to oblivion.
