I’ve been going to bed early. It’s a tedious thing to know. I know. And yet I tell you because it’s a feat, a masterful accomplishment not unparallel to walking on the moon. Well, maybe unparalleled with that one.

When sleep pushes down on my eyes, I get more creative. In that brief moment, my mind is more alert, more sharp than is has been all day. That moment is the ether of my sleep and waking life, the in-between my own sun and moon. And then sleep drifts in and I’m sure a few minutes later I start deep breathing. If I could capture those moments of clarity I could solve the world’s problems, I could write the best poems.

I’ve decided I live on the edge of what I want and yet listing all those things seems like a chore that would bring no further push than sitting and wishing does. But knowing is half the battle I’ve heard so I’ll list one thing: I want a man who buys me poetry books and marks his favorite ones before he gives them to me. There, ether, make it so.

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