Good morning, Earth.

Earlier I read a short story by a friend of mine and got very excited, started messaging him ecstatically, happy that he'd written something so smooth, generous, well-paced. It was like seeing my friend put on a nice suit. Later I realized that I read the same story with just a few minor changes a year ago, and had given him precisely the same praise. Like a fuckin' dopey dope.

There was a while there where I was getting so concerned about my faulty memory that I started looking up any kind of supplement that claimed to be able to help. Friends, that is a twisty dark rabbit hole. Ginseng, siberian ginseng, ginko biloba, zinc, magnesium, b6, piracetam, l-tyrosine, etc. One morning I woke up with sleep paralysis, hallucinating an iridescent python curling its way toward me from the ceiling. From what? A vitamin.

Quickly forgetting certain things on the surface has its benefits. Now it seems like every time I want to write something well I should be careful what I pry open, as it will inevitably have its effect. I need to get the right cadence in my ear by reading a little. All the little question-marks and exclamations and occasional, intentional clichés I've been peppering in lately? The direct address? Murakami.

It's a bit of a shame that I didn't read him earlier. He's light and when I was sixteen and girls were reading him on the metro I thought I was dark, way too dark and serious in literature for Murakami. He could have lightened me up a bit.

Shit. I think a bird just flew into my apartment through the skylight in the living room.