I need to work on better titles

Today is going to be a slow day. The French Press steeping, waiting. There’s time to slowly make coffee, to slowly wake up, to slowly remember my dreams from last night.

I was gettin’ it on with Sarah Jessica Parker in a yellow hotel room. OK? Not bad for two skinny broads. She was being chased by the mob and they were tracking her with a paper drawing of her body and ghost foot prints – like the marauders map in Harry Potter. I think I had too much sugar last night.
I went to bed worried because I didn’t have a pen or paper on the bedside table next to me. And all this morning I kept rolling over a line over and over again to remember it. Mouths caught like zippers, Zippers caught like mouths, Complicated mouths and zippers. I’m not sure what struck me about it, why half awake/half in dreams I told myself to remember. We lay in bed this morning. Two minds silently buzzing. I know mine is full or worker ants – collecting, hauling things bigger than myself. Sometimes when it’s working I have no concept of silence. I don’t even realize I’m not speaking.

On Friday we pulled into the driveway around 11 pm. A raccoon’s face caught in the headlights. I don’t think I’ve ever seen on that close before. Just dead on the highway. We left the car running, the spotlight upon him, we stayed to watch like a drive in while he rummaged through the weeds. And then the shock of meeting us wore off, he bumbled into the night.
I’ve been wondering where self expression ends and art begins. Will I know the difference when I get there, if I get there, if I’m there? When do the things we write about become art? How do I know? So much of my instinct to write begins with self-expression, the need to express or explode. Is then the art within the revision? Within the crafting and shaving and carving a heart and eyes and bones?

Shit, I forgot to pay my student loan.

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