Much as I wish I could blame a careful arrangement of myself in timespace for all my artistic successes and failures, I’ve made the unfortunate discovery in recent years that all of that is total bullshit, and that I am capable of writing wherever and whenever, despite all circumstances. Which is a lot of pressure, lemme just say.

That being said, I did make this space.

The desk was my dad’s, the blanket was my mom’s.

The double-width chair and the work, however. Those are mine.

The chair, I guess. The chair was necessary. A bed you can fall asleep in, and a normal chair, you can’t curl your feet up under your knees.

I have no excuses, now. I can move my feet anywhere, and I have no reason not to write at all.

So, yeah. Fuck.

(I wrote this post on the couch. I wrote this story in that chair, though.)