incomplete. musings.

beer man is now cigar man. he got real mad at a lady who was running her engine while we sat nearby at outdoor tables. i personally didn’t mind. i wonder if he’d share his cigarette. 

my mind feels quieter. i wonder why. perhaps this is what they mean by writing is therapy. but didn’t i already know that? 

i feel like i’m writing to please a specific audience. but these writings are mostly for myself- i have no audience. so why is there a filter on my words? 

i wonder if writers tend to memorize their own words. sometimes i do that. not always though- sometimes i forget what i wrote instantly and am shocked to learn i am the author. 


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