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The impossible answer to the nagging, unspoken question: why is this the plan?

My critic knows me and pushes me. To do more, to be more, but also to doubt and loathe myself

There it was, a faded sign, a pitch-dark eatery. We were the only patrons

Will the world implode because I wasn’t watching, or will I implode because I don’t know the world is imploding?

Picture the scene: the wife is bawling through her mask, the husband is pacing, tissues are everywhere

But I don’t have much time to philosophize. Let me rephrase — I have time, but not quiet time