I’m sitting in the university’s library, fourth floor. It’s quiet. People are working hard here. They don’t work hard on the first floor. It’s like a slow progression of seriousness the higher you go. Sometimes I feel that’s why I love New York City, too. I’m playing Adele. The guy I’m supposed to be with left an hour ago. Every minute that goes by I feel heavier and heavier within this assigned skeleton. Breath is waging war with heart and soul is conquering mind. Books surround me, words of people who think they know what they’re talking about. Lights line the ceiling in an orderly fashion – a tamed tiger. My rings clothe my fingers but I feel entirely bare… and cold. I’m waiting on responses and I’m waiting for the world. I’m waiting. And again, my naked skeleton feels vulnerable to the world. I’m being judged. The people working notice my procrastination. The published books laugh at my unrecognized thoughts. I am no artist. I’m sitting on the fourth floor when I know that my home is at the bottom. I like to look up, after all.


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