Right now, pacing my sister’s long patio in the sunlight, still in my leopard pajamas, a black cigarette smoking itself in my right hand, having written two decent poems this morning, having written them on my impromptu desk made of a practicing acupuncturist’s table, having said my prayers and poured the last of my coffee on the ground in respect… right now.
Right now I feel like a writer.
-M.
