The clock on my computer says 6:16, and it is wrong. Two hours prior in the AM is where I sit, and I write to you from there. Blond, by Frank Ocean plays loudly out of my iPad.
I have recently been informed I am moving out of Oakland, and will be moving full-on into the Green Tortoise Hostel; the one in San Francisco. I am neither excited nor barred by the prospect, and intend to make the most of it. I feel the ever encroaching inevitability of success, and this is because I refuse to lose my motivation. I will have less personal space, yet a constant bombardment of claimable readership. Most of my readers are previous hostel guests or high school acquaintances.
I hate to say so, but one thing I seek desperately is direction. They tell me I am a beautiful writer; but how oft doth the wandering daydreamer manifest their destiny fully? This is not a riddle. Recently I have been writing about Love, for I just write about how I feel. Today I feel kinetic.