When you wake up to that first

morning moment

anything is possible. The day has not begun,

and it is full of unmade promises. Wrapped up in

sheets of myself below a ceiling

blank as my thinking, I begin. I think of

the things I can do. I can buy a ticket, a lottery

ticket, and win a life

worth living.

I can write the story that is

there at my fingertips, where it always has been,

waiting for the untold moment. I could paint, badly

as ever, but ever so happily, or draw the same way,

inept and in secret. I could stand up and sing a song

of sick sense, light some incense, paint a wood fence,

make up nonsense

for myself.

I could find some kind

of love

or hate

to make the living worth it.

I could do anything.

The day has just


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