I’m in an empty convention center bathroom, staring down at the rows of tiny square tiles, wondering if I’ll see my lunch again.
I wanted to use my hands to practice my art.
Is our interpretation of prior actions an accurate assessment of the past? Or is it a cognitive trap, an illusion created by a minefield of biases?
“But seriously, what do you do all week?”
Those who inject fentanyl are not magically conjured by rubbing a DVD box set of The Wire.