I’m cold. I’m fighting. I close my eyes, I see that beautiful building on Wilshire or that laundry at the corner of Benton and Beverly. I open them, I feel like in 2009. I’m going to rip off this wallpaper and it’s going to feel so good.
I’m fighting, asking. Telling all the motherfuckers who owe me money that they need to do what they’re supposed to do, again and again. I make some room on my computers, find pictures, remember all the fucks given to emails I sent to my family showing things around: none.
I’m cold on my chair, fighting tears or am I trying to get them out? I can’t do it. I’m mad. I read about police brutality, have minutes of silence. Is it hours? God that poor kid.
I’m either cold of have enough heat in me to power five stars.