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My favorite part of the Thursday morning subway ride is the majority of people riding with their eyes closed. Dreaming. Resting. Hoping for the weekend.

Splattered down the 8 minutes were the worst in his life, death included. What does he do? Does he run down? He calls an ambulance. He covers and cares for the onlookers. Looking across the street thinking what does one do when they see a man fall to their death

I wait and delay demoralized by the talent converted by perseverance that’s celebrated out there. On the street the digital, the analogue. I’m scared because my creations are boring alas each and every time the reaction I get is excitement and support. I myself block my path towards

Evenings are for dreamers to be what I promised to me young and stupid which you’d think was long ago alas only yesterday. Yesterday my wishes never came to be as I never knew what I wanted. Today, tonight I see clearly I cannot achieve my idealist’s world

Lately I’ve been thinking about anger. About passion and anger really. How tied the two are for me. Anger I mean vicious force. Not with the intent to hurt. But to dominate. At work. In art. In love.

There’s a conversation I’ve heard a thousand times. Why does it come to mind? It’s in the past and I cannot change it. It’s not the future, I do not sense it. Why then do I need to hear what matters not to me? Help me

Pickings of the brain in between struggling of peace of mind. When code is not in front of his eyes. When the computer chugs its data for a while. Then he decides to pick up a pen to pick up the pace in the race that’s happening inside.