I walk past compact homes with cute balconies. On each balcony, there's a small circular table kept company by a pair of empty chairs – many little scenes set for conversations outdoors at sunset, a drink in hand, a view of the sleepy street.
The shopping center is cold, clean, and gleaming. It has a vague cologne smell and an atmosphere of emptiness.
The sunflower peeks into the rear windshield of the SUV.
Sometimes, the people who understand me best are authors I've never met.
I stay out of the discussion because of the rampant infantilization. The participants generally want to scream their point of view without hearing a bit of disagreement. Disagreement makes them feel bad. In the course of their tantrums, they threaten people's jobs, reputations, and safety.
When I step out the back entrance of the building at night, a rat immediately scurries past my feet, brushing the tips with its body. It disappears into the shrubs and not through the open door, I think.
At the gym, a man listens to a comedy podcast while doing yoga. He keeps laughing and falling out of position.