I play with my beard when I think. And I’m right handed. So naturally my beard has a twist to the right. The Bean thinks it’s cute, she says I have the seasoned beard of a thinker. Everyone else just thinks I’m a mental patient that it’s windy outside. Work still sucks. Here’s a picture I took back in 2010.

I play with my beard when I think. And I’m right handed. So naturally my beard has a twist to the right. The Bean thinks it’s cute, she says I have the seasoned beard of a thinker. Everyone else just thinks I’m a mental patient that it’s windy outside. 

Work still sucks. Here’s a picture I took back in 2010.

late night ramblings

When you can’t sleep, or
can’t get back to sleep
after the slightest thing wakes you,

and the dark, starless sky in the window, 
greets you with the ice cold water 
of knowing that this is your one and only life,
that you should call your dad more often,
that you could have treated your friends better,
that you shouldn’t be here, you should be in Afghanistan
or Syria, or some other trench
to show the world the horror 
to suffer with the best 

and you don’t understand how music can sound so good as
Alt-J’s Matilda, that one day you’ll cease to exist and 
you’ll never hear music this good again
you wonder why you’re allowed to hear such beautiful sounds 
in the first place,

and yet the water is warm, comforting, soothing as
cool rain in the summer, petrichor rising from the sandy earth,
perfect, benevolent, natural, simple, 
like sitting at a poker table with Bukowski and Thoreu,
with Minor White and Salvador Dali, 

you’ve put your cards on the table 
and were soundly defeated 
in a game with nothing to lose.