The Color Of Hunger

Archive for the ‘My Poetry/Creative Writing’ Category

Indulgence, that look in your eye. A tone spoken with a guilty iris. Here’s to that contagious little half-smile making it’s way between your lips.

You stand up, try to. I’m here to help you, shaky legs. Balance. Steady. Outside is not far from us. Take me with you please, I cannot bear me alone with me. Combining fingerprints, we are the children of euphoric stimulation.  Tenderness of molecules, each blossom of skin alive. Witness to mini-rainbows forming in the sprinkler mist of neighboring lawns. Making me giddy. I begin to dance across foreign grass. Soft, wet, green kissing my toes. I feel good, as do you. You tell me this and I laugh at you because you’re laughing at yourself. Squeezing me tighter via palms, I am wearing nothing but you.

You look at me with brand new eyes and I don’t know whether to run or stand rigidly in the light of vulnerability. I have spent months ignoring your gaze in fear that I will never know what it means. Don’t look at me. My face tells nothing of the world inside my head. Our pupils meet and I try to cross the ocean between our two bodies, but I drown long before I reach the shore. These words are tired and as my mouth forms the syllables, they taste stale on my tongue.

I want my legs draped over your shoulders. My voice breath-filled and coy. My hands pulling you in closer. My body writhing with joy. Your face buried deep between my thighs. Holding you in place. Your nose filled with my sweet scent. Your tongue dancing with my taste.

Your hair. Your smile. Your voice. Your words. Your kisses. Your hands. Your heart. Your laugh. Your body. Your clothes. Your scent. Your jokes. Your hugs. You.

Maybe these feelings are too strong to capture in words. Maybe a blank page would convey them better than an inked one. Maybe I should stop trying and just let you do you and me do me. Maybe that would lead to a simpler, easier life for the both of us. Maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe these tears bleed through my writing for a reason. Maybe if I were patient enough to let them dry, this paper in front of me wouldn’t be ugly, soaked, and full of holes in half-hearted attempts to rub them out. Maybe if I didn’t let them fall from my cheeks to begin with, they wouldn’t be there and this problem wouldn’t exist.

Maybe if I stared out this open window long enough, my mind would magically go blank and shit would make sense again. Maybe these thoughts consume me because I allow them to. Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I fear an empty conscience. Maybe that makes more sense to you, than me. Maybe I’m secretly hoping it does.

Maybe I won’t think about you today. Maybe I can make it through my mornings, my afternoons, my evenings, my nights, without letting my curiosity destroy my innocence. Maybe if I threw my head back and closed my eyes tight enough it would fade this obsession. Maybe this wishful thinking is what’s preventing me from accepting the reality of it all.

Maybe in the future, you will teach me lots of cool things, and I will learn them, get good at them, and re-teach you with a smile on my face. Maybe I’ll apologize for not ending this little attachment of ours before feelings took over, but between me and you, I have very few regrets.

Maybe love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own. Maybe love is a natural hallucinogen and I am a fucking addict. Maybe we all are. Maybe love means that you accept a person with all their failures, stupidities, ugly points, and nonetheless, you see perfection in imperfection itself. Maybe when you truly love someone, age, distance, height, weight, and salary are just numbers. Maybe I am just crazy. Maybe I am o-fucking-kay with that.

Maybe I will never ever, in a million years, figure out why pain penetrates deeper internally than ex. Maybe this mystery was never ever, in a million years, meant to be figured out.

Maybe this music will numb me. Maybe if I turn the volume knob far enough to the right, it will drown out my bad intentions and leave my soul somewhat pure again. Maybe fuck pure. Maybe pure is the antagonist here; the backbone to false being, closed minds, and a society watered down with status and statistic. Maybe sometimes in this boring, scheduled life, this waiting-for-Friday-night life that we all lead, we just need the world to remind us that not everything is perfect. Maybe flaws are pretty, too. Maybe there’s some beauty in the breakdown. Maybe there are more people than I think who feel the same way as I do. Maybe you are one of them. Maybe I’m just losing my fucking mind.

Maybe Mister Anxiety won’t get the best of me today. Maybe if I cut the bad fruit off the tree, there would be no reason for me to be anxious. Maybe this fruit is sweet as a motherfucker though and I love the way it leaves my tongue longing for more. Maybe I feel more alive when my heart beats as fast as it does because of this. Maybe there is too much brain in my head. Maybe I like playing my cards wrong. Maybe I enjoy the chaos.

Maybe the best way to appreciate something is to be without it for awhile. Maybe this would allow for my past to make me a better person in my current state instead of a bitter one. Maybe nothing ever becomes real until it is experienced. Maybe I haven’t grasped this concept to the best of my abilities yet. Maybe soon, I might.

Maybe being strong just isn’t for me. Maybe I should embrace my sad side and let it take me wherever the fuck it chooses to take me. Maybe every bit of sadness in my life only serves to make the good bits sweeter. Maybe the problem contains the solution. Maybe I already know this, but refuse to swallow it.

Maybe I should calm down, take a deep breath, and relax. Maybe if I could, I would. Maybe fuck calm. Maybe I should punch today in the face. Maybe Mister Anxiety is denying me this oxygen as a form of cruel punishment and there’s no way to escape it so I shouldn’t try to. Maybe I don’t know me like I thought I did. Maybe I should put this cigarette out now, seeing as I don’t smoke and I can’t remember how it got between my lips in the first place.

Maybe if I put more mascara on tomorrow morning, the dark circles lingering below my eyes won’t be so noticeable. Maybe this quad stack of Tylenol on the table in front of me would kick in faster accompanied by a good tall glass of whiskey and Coke. Maybe I am stuck in memory lane because I love running into you. Maybe in order to regain traction I have to forget it all. Maybe I can’t bring myself to do that right now. Maybe I have to make myself not want you or else you’re all I think about. Maybe the word ‘maybe’ should be void in that last sentence.

Maybe I love losing myself in you, running my fingers through your hair, down your temple, kissing you everywhere until your smell lingers on me even after you’re gone. Maybe I take pleasure in indulging in you. Maybe locking your fingers, your legs, your lips, between mine when we fuck is worth every minute of the nostalgia of the replay. Maybe sometimes I wonder how different your replays are compared to mine.

Maybe you make me happier than you’ll ever know. Maybe I crave your youth, that spunk you carry yourself with, and maybe I enjoy dwelling in your energy because it brings out the best of mine. Maybe there was meaning behind the words we exchanged. Maybe sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places. Maybe I’m just a dreamer who should have more realistic hopes.

Maybe I’m making this worse by writing about it. Maybe this is the only way I know how to extract my emotion and cope with it. Maybe fuck you for loving me. Maybe fuck me for the same damn reason. Maybe you are my question. Maybe you are my answer. Maybe you are neither. Maybe all we need is time to figure out who we are, what this is, and where we want to go with it. Maybe we will never know.

Maybe you understand this more than I ever will.

Maybe not.

As the evenings become cooler and night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. The changes within ourselves. Each spring we smolder, waiting to burn through the summer passion that we accept or want to be waiting at our door. Ideas, lovers, ideals. Year after year – disappointment. The passion escapes us. A snowman made of sand. But not this one.
The ‘it’ is there as we hoped. The ‘it’ burns hot. Suddenly, everything is interesting. The creases in our palms. The blood in our veins. The history of us. We begin to connect mutual urges of curiosity, thinking thoughts on a level that is solely ours. Physically, mentally, emotionally. Reevaluating the noise you feed me over pillows no one else can hear. Entangled in each other; hands venture, exclusive pleasure. When your body and mine lie together under a white sheet. The whole long continent of you. The pale ridgeline of your collarbone and hip and thigh. The comforting filling and refilling of your chest. The warmth I so completely get lost in. There is nothing that needs to be explained. But how did we get here? Do we belong? Why are we always so shy on the answers?
Relaxed and patient, we submit to the flux of our present feeling. Changing the way we think about each other with every new encounter. Bringing you down to things you can’t conceive. Knowing that it is I who has done it. Seeing your wonderful spirit dependent upon the obscenity of your need. Witnessing you as you are, as you face the world with your clean, proud strength. Then to see you, in my bed, surrendering to any infamous whim I may devise. With your guilty little half smile. Watching your dishonor. To which you’ll submit to for the sake of an unspeakable sensation. You are the boy who wonders into hearts without knocking or wiping your feet, my love. I am the girl who says goodbye but never really lets go. We are the aimless, the lost, the constant consumers of endless fascination.
And now, as the evenings become cooler, night closer to day, we are reminded of the changes in season. Crisp autumn air stimulating fresh relations. Inhale. Exhale. We breath each other in and through and down and out. The wants, the needs. Via you. Via me. The faults, the flaws, the imperfections, the personality extractions. I’ve spent hours contemplating the words to say to you, but no combination of twenty six different letters could ever accurately capture even a sliver of what this feeling is. Yet I continue to want it. I need it really. You are both my umbrella and my rain. But I will always be left trying to figure out how that can be.

Gatherings of  modest raindrops make their way across November skies.
Staggering south as the wind blows. Hard.
55 now. Hugging pavement. Between all the lines.
Remains of your reflection loitering in my rear-view.
My eyes begin to leak with curiosity.
A fragile sensation.
Pupils go numb. So stuck on staring at yours. Through yours.
The answers caught beneath the irises. Such pretty irises.
So perfect.
So neat.
Yet who am I to be the judge of that?
I suppose I will never know; I cannot see from the inside-out.
So I remain silent.
Sometimes not being in control is the most beautiful thing in the world.
Mind over matter, fucking with these filthy feelings.
But feeling fucks back.
A witch with a massive, black book of ugly, mean spells.
Cast upon unsuspecting souls.
360’s on the spinal cord.
A spiral staircase of white.
There is no escape.
There is no end.

{I will miss this so very much.}
Smiles glisten in distorted reflections of table silverware.
Wavy faces trapped under reddish diner lights.
Curvy at the base. Spiraled at the ends.
Getting lost in casual till conversations; savoring them as they unfold.
Kissing ass, but keeping pride.
These lips have standards.
Concocting milkshakes, decaf on that coffee, green light – GO.
Lipstick remains on empty Coke glasses.
Pouring water just because.
No rebound this time, better luck next.
Feet cast beneath spells of increasing tempo and movement.
Toes loaded with wave after wave of momentum.
The flow of….energy.
Quick….moving….then quick again.
Looking forward to work.
Grease stains mark accomplishment.
Dirty aprons not to be frowned upon.
Feeding off invisible heat from the fryer.
And the grill.
And….the people.
You get what you give.
So give good.
Good morning, Mr. Sunday, how lovely you are today.
The door now becomes the alarm clock.
Stuck at a constant – in, out, out, in.
The good kind though, the purest form.
The sound of….happy.
The feeling of….alive.
{I am was content here.}

We never change our ways. Living in a water world of fake promise and faded future. Trapped here. And the people who can’t handle it are swimming in it. Searching for dry spots, but this pool has no steps or fancy rails. No shallow end. And no drain. So it fills up. And eventually seeps over the sides. Floods are constant. Damage is inevitable.

But the people are reaching out this time. They don’t want this. Stray water is uncomfortable.


I just get lost in it. With it. Above and below it. I sink and then I float. All the memories get tangled in filters. Spiderwebs of youth form inside them. Only a few remain. And I’m the outsider looking in. I grab for a piece dangling to my left. All I come back with is sticky. Drowning, but not from fear – curiosity is a tricky fellow.

I’m so tired of it now though.

I head for the ladder, right over left. Repeat. Right over left. Repeat. But these rungs are too slippery. And I am far too heavy.

Confused, my feet leave me at the ankles. I fall backwards, plunging below the surface yet again. Cold, wet, numb. I know this water all too well. But why is it so hard to get up? There’s got to be a reason for it all. But why can’t I find it?

Frustration sets in. Tears on fire. Slicing their way across sharp cheekbones, erasing hope as they greet the chin. A plastic surgeon with a butter knife. The flame is always cold once it reaches the lips. I’m left to taste the embers. Darkness falls, the people are crying out. And I’m right there with them.

Creating an attachment, they can’t rush this.
Attachments can’t be rushed.
Links of destruction, sex fueled by Saturday night tendencies.
Too rough, slower please.
Ignorance is a frightening form of inner bliss.
She fights, but he prevails.
Too far gone; trying proves pointless tonight.
Thinking with feet, her strides become clumsy, unbalanced.
He echoes his behind hers, hungry echoes – not to be taken lightly.
The purple sky watches as she stumbles between curiosity and fear,
A valid contestant – this chase a game of lust and rapid heartbeat.
Masking tears in raindrops, she grows impatient.
Where did he go and where am I?
An engine backfires in the distance,
Mechanical noises pierce the evening air.
‘Let’s go!’
A demand, an order, a perpendicular expression of horizontal desire?
Undoing hostility, the poison of persuasion is left pumping through her conscience.
Is he the question or the answer?
Or neither?
Weak at the knees, she forces forward motion despite it all.
He lights his cigarette; dry shaky fingers strike the cold metal wheel.
Challenging her, he penetrates with restless pupils and foaming irises.
The waiting game’s just too easy to cheat,
The rules, too hard to follow.
Bodies move, hands venture,
The most fun she could ever have without laughing.
Foggy windows began to cry as warmth is born.
Reality begins to fade back in,
Awake, senses heightening, introducing Normality The Antagonist.
She’s aware of surroundings now, but before was way better.
Maybe he’ll return, jog backwards, and come get her.
He explores her bare body through hungry eyes.
Innocent urges of curiosity, concentration at its peak.
Skin is a beautiful organ of touch.
She knows this,
And so does he.
Casual persuasion; he undresses with nimble fingers.
Kissing her ribs and counting each one out loud.
Papers scatter now, these desks turn dirty.
No limitations on this journey.
Yielding to emotion – viewer discretion is advised.
Questioning nothing, he provides all her answers.
Sudden movement / static breathing.
In Out In Out
Addressing time in slow-motion.
Hours fade to noises.
Satisfaction is yummy.
Encouraging whispers tickle her eardrum; distinct smells of warmth echoing.
She’s getting lost in the ride, thrust forward then back again.
Sensations powered by a V8 engine.
Tan skin connects with pale – a color clash of outer ego.
Her bottom lip quivers uncontrollably; a shiver on steroids.
This feeling is so surreal.
Laments the Student:
Teach me bonus, man with power.
(We’ve only just begun.)
After school again, so comfortable in your presence here.
Energy flows to the toes, my muscles surrender to pleasure.
So young. So ALIVE.
Special attention, I want it / I crave it / I need it.
(You got it, you give it.)
Light this love on fire, one more time.
I fall submissive to the afterglow.
Loose + relaxed + excited + stimulated; all at once.
Challenging my senses, but I accept.
I’ve stumbled upon perfection today,
And just had to explain it.

I’m not sure why I called in the first place. You never pick up anyways.

I wish I could have x-ray vision. But for feelings. Then I wouldn’t hafta guess anymore. I’d actually fall asleep within ten minutes of hitting the pillow. I’d actually know what to expect in return when my mind gets to those clingy and obsessed stages. Fuck I hate those stages. I never had those stages before you came into my life. I actually hafta make myself not want you, or else yer all I think about.

I feel like I’m following Hansel and Gretel. But you’ve got all the clocks in the world on pause and an unlimited supply of bread crumbs. I’ll get to a curve in the path sometimes and loose track of the trail. He’ll come back for me, I tell myself, emotions shaky, confidence shakier. (The broken is the beautiful, right love?) But you never do. I’m left to find my bearings all alone in these creepy woods. The trees are always laced with unfulfilled needs and wants. The forest constantly reeks. Strong whiffs of could-have-been’s and I-wishes get trapped in the linings of my nostrils, even when I come across the crumbs again.

My need’s dominating my want tonight. That’s never good. Potential danger is no stranger when the need overrides the want. Shit gets ugly, attachments grow stale, and most of all, desire becomes a deceiving enemy. I find myself in an epic battle with that word. Not a bloody one, just a simple scuffle. A Looney Tunes chase, per say, where nobody gets hurt and everybody goes back to normal at the end. Me versus Desire. But not vice versa.

Just give me a compass of yer sensitive side. Please? I know you have one, I’ve seen it. I crave the man I used to spend endless hours on the phone with. Not just for a quick fuck either. There was meaning behind the words we exchanged. At least I thought there was. Or am I just lost in those woods again?

When I search for yer bread crumbs, I search everywhere. Sometimes for days. Being lost is no fun, especially in those woods. I’ll get to that breaking point where nothing seems to matter much anymore and giving up is inevitable. The wildlife are protagonists, I’ve learned. They wipe my tears away with gentle paws and tilt my head up so I have no choice but to connect watery blue pupils with them. Lacking the ability to speak with their mouths, they use their eyes.

It’s amazing how silent love can be. An infinite language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see. So powerful, so distinct. I sit there for what seems like forever, locking irises with these creatures of inspiration. Until finally, they’ll bat an eyelash and force me to break my gaze. Slowly, without missing a beat, they point in unison at a tiny piece of bread underneath a fresh pile of leaves. I must have overlooked this spot before, must have walked right past it. Then they disappear among the masses of trees before I can even thank them.

I dust my knees off quickly with both hands and recover from where I left off. I suppose you’ve forgotten about me by now though. It’s been too long, I don’t blame you. And I’m sure you don’t either. But yet I continue following this twisted path. I can’t help it. I’m stuck on this endless journey of undeniable lust and blind reactions. Why won’t you come back for me? I’m so sick of following. Be by my side this time, I need a hand. A man’s hand. My man’s hand.

When people laugh and ask me what I see in you, I simply tell them “everything you don’t.” I never lack courage here, and why would I? By loving me, yer teaching me how to love myself. Love is life, and if you miss love, you miss life. And I guess it’s so incredible to me because I’ve never felt it this strongly before. I’m high without smoke, without pills. Everything I do is so enhanced and brighter with you on my mind. It sounds so fucking cliche, too. But it’s….true? Yea, true.

So this is my life. And I just want you to know that I am both happy and sad, but I’m still trying to figure out how that can be.

So, today I came across the most amazing techno/electronic/funky/sexy/crazy/amazing/beautiful/wicked/awesome song. Allow me to explain.

This Song robs me of breath. I grit my teeth without realizing I’m gritting them and find myself frantically searching for an inhaler. Even if I did have a few puffs to spare, they’d be gone before I made it past the 1-minute mark. This Song makes me dizzy, it’s so awesome. Demi Moore would divorce Ashton and remarry him again, just to have This Song played at the wedding.

My play count column has reached thirty-five for This Song within an hour of downloading it. And it’s 4+ minutes in length. (This Song makes impossible shit possible.) I wish I could create my own genre in Itunes. I would put This Song under an independent label better known to music fans as “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING AMAZING”. It would be the only song in its genre. People would buy billions. The music business would resemble a sort of Avatar-like boost in popularity, but eventually get so big that the entire movie industry would be considered ‘just a fad’. All thanks to This Song.

If This Song were a fashion model, she’d be the skinniest, most attractive model in show-biz. A healthy skinny though, as in sexy skinny and not part of a tree branch skinny. This Song’s strides would be one with her stilettos. Her legs would extend and collapse at perfect angles when on the runway. Cameramen that gathered in mobs beneath her feet would drop to their knees, surrendering helplessly to her soft, yet difficult outer beauty. ‘Maybe she was born with it’, would be the joke of the century.

I think my imagination and This Song just fell in love. It puts me in a world of blurry trance, a fantasy land with side-effects consisting of constant movement and rapid heartbeat. This Song holds me hostage to its positive vibes. The bass on it could re-invent water. The treble holds enough power to turn Obama Republican and Michael black again. AC/DC would be lucky to have This Song even consider touring the world with them, because worldwide tours are against This Song’s religion. That, along with the whole concept of having a religion to begin with.

This Song’s Myspace page would be set to private due to the amount of followers it would receive on a daily basis. It would probably freeze the Internet on a global level if it did end up switching to public. In fact, This Song puts Google to death simply by profile views. You couldn’t count how many hits it had in the  first hour of live streaming, if you combined all the hands in America and multiplied that number by twenty. (“Shit that’s a lot, maaaan”). You bet yer ass that’s a lot.

This Song is so incredibly hard to stop listening to. Just thinking about it gives me a nosebleed and causes me to forget how to spell my own name. I start to fade out from reality but come back again, solely to hear the rest of it. I’m fascinated by how many high and low parts This Song consists of. Techno music has a few here and there, but This Song is a high and lows pimp. It’s so well-written, my five senses are having a tea-party inside of my head. But instead of tea, they’ve got Starbursts and Red Bull. My tastebuds are moving with the backbone of This Song’s chorus. Like bundles of tiny red Pop Rocks, they bounce in beelines on the surface of my tongue. This Song always laughs with me when my mouth goes numb. A manly laugh too, the laugh you never seem to hear anymore; the loud and hearty chuckle uttered by a confident man who could give a rip less what people think of his cackle, sometimes even making fun of himself.

This Song could randomly walk through a fancy night club in downtown L. A. and be asked to DJ within thirty seconds of entering the place. The disc jockey would stop his music and the dance floor would go silent. “No, no, I liked what you were spinnin’. I wanna hear you spin.” This Song would go on a marathon of modesty and excuses before crossing the finish line of temptation. It couldn’t help it, music was in its blood. {Ahhh, the irony.} This Song would always end up spinning the best shit, too, never settling for a boring show. Its fingertips would caress the record in such an exotic way, it’d make you believe there was a zoo of instruments inside the vinyl itself. You just couldn’t see them. You had to feel.

The word ‘feel’ was This Song’s job. People considered it a chiropractor to their lyrical backbone, a doctor of sorts, who couldn’t tell you how to spell ”Ph. D” to save its life, but could lay down a throwback track so hardcore, that a sad, old, deaf man would drop his cane and start dancing the ”Funky Chicken” to it. Then This Song would turn Grandpa’s little walking stick into a cluster of speakers and turntables and Grandpa into a damn good DJ. The old man would mix for hours, hypnotized by the way the black record brushed gently against the soles of his skin. He would be alive again, revived by the therapy of sound. This Song would even coin a name for its treatment. It would be referred to as ’stimulation of the music muscles.’ Music memory. The art of finding one’s self between the crosshairs of a good beat and an even better baseline. Getting lost in tempos, but refusing the map. The Lewis and Clark of creativity. And boy does This Song like to be creative.

This Song would force Santa to turn anorexic with how intense its lyrics are. (Pssst, it doesn’t have any lyrics.) He would fire all his little elves for bald midgets, who whistled portions of Beatles’ songs when they worked. This Song would be their Christmas theme song, even though it had absolutely nothing to do with the holidays. It didn’t have to. The pure brilliance of its inner beauty and outer details were enough for it to replace the national anthem. The “Star Spangled Banner” would be a thing of the past and completely unheard of to younger generations.

If This Song decided to move to South Africa, its entire fanbase would move with it. Later on in life, it would write a book about the adaptation to African culture. The book would be titled “Caucasian Invasion” and would put Mark Twain to shame. It would be considered ‘too controversial’ to be sold in Walmart. When This Song heard about the boycott from Wally World, it was so frustrated that it bought the entire Walmart franchise, shut it down, fired all the workers, and opened it back up again. Only this time Wally World was a massive chain of rollerblading rinks with free admission.

People would travel from all over the world to bask in This Song’s success. Little kids considered This Song to be their idol. They wanted to be just like it. Parents would even name their children after cities This Song’s rollerblading rinks were in. It always had a way of making people smile, too. No one could understand how outstanding it made them feel, it just did. (There’s that “feel” word again.) The addiction to emotion was way too incredible to pass up. Every emotion was stimulated when listening to This Song. Sad, happy, mad, funny. You name it, This Song stimulated it. I’m not even sure if it should be called a song. The offspring of Wonder Woman and God himself would be more in the ballpark. (Or maybe Matt Bouldin; that guy’s a stud. A very attractive, tan stud.)

It’s almost intangible how talented This Song is. When it was born, it came out wearing bright green aviators and had a Puerto Rican cigar perched between its perfect apple-red lips. It weighed fifteen pounds and spoke seven different languages, primarily Italian. Over the years, This Song would loose its accent, but never its pride. Cooking up killer spaghetti and lasagna dishes for hungry rollerskaters would be its specialty. Right behind being the best tune in the history of the world. “No big deal” it would say, confidence and poise behind every word. “I can’t explain it. I guess it just runs in my blood.”

This Song =

~ “Charlotte” by Booka Shade ~

Spokane, WA. 26 years young. Aquarius, of course. I am a very optimistic individual driven by passion and creativity. Music is my inspiration to everything. I dig the nightlife. I enjoy discovering new craft beers and breweries. I like animals more than humans. The ocean is amazing. I have no idea what I wanna do with my life and prolly never will. But I'm going to succeed because I'm crazy enough to think I can.
August 2020

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