Friday arrives like a gift, I wake at dawn and am not mad. Last night's miles linger in my muscles, last night's creative output like a badge of validation on my breast. You were never meant to write in the mornings, Bukowski could've told you that decades ago. But you didn't need to hear it then, you knew all about it then, it's only in your old adult age that you've tried to join the throngs – what for?! what good did the throngs ever accomplish?! – like you made a deal with the devil but came up short. Grasp all, lose all, said the dog without his bone.
Writing was made for nights, Fridays were meant for tumbling into the Village and dragging yourself to a decrepit old bar that charges 90s prices for cheap bottles of bubbly. May goes out like a lion, out like a buttercup, spring dances like it hasn't a care in the world, what care could you have when you are spring? The peonies along the bay are over already, tumbled to the ground, but just as bright, just as joyful, just as unafraid.
May is mighty, now, unstoppable.
You can be, too.
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