(May 2016)


Once (just once), I drank bad wine with opinionated men
and tried to define art with them.
The necessary components—an audience, and intent—they make sense to me
but I think the truth of art is:
the only failures are the works you don’t create.

Schedules help but they don’t constrain. I am cruel but not strict.
All my self-loathing comes after I did not act. I forgive
because I don’t want to hate myself.

My dear, make time for what you love—you have no one to resent
but yourself. Just the way you like it.
Just as you need it.