Zero sums and dreadful games. Months of polite requests. All discarded for an impromptu romp after garage work. That seems to be the cycle. Four months of drought, and then a trickle of pleasant promises that evaporate under solipsism. It lends perspective in shades of vanilla jerseys and heavily applied eyeshadow. Was I so different at 24? At 29? At 55?

12:04 p.m. - 2017-11-27