When I consider the man I want to become someday, I often picture myself as someone who prays.
Last night I woke in the middle of the night and wondered if it’s possible to believe in something otherworldly in 2020.
As I listened to a woman talk to the pigeons, I began humming that Jesus’ blood never failed me yet.
Tonight I’m going to play Funkadelic on repeat, dim the lights, make bad coffee, and write some purple prose.
A news anchor said, “We are descending into something that is not the United States of America tonight.” I’m not sure if this is true.
The amount of incense smoke that darkens a temple’s ceiling demonstrates the popularity of that particular god.
I remember watching the darkness in my bedroom when I was small, hypnotized by grey-pink flecks while I waited for sleep.
“Everything’s a mystery and I’m just another small part of it,” said a woman at a gas station in Barstow.
Strange how something you’ve heard a thousand times can suddenly knock you over.
It seems like a tragedy to go through life not knowing the names of the lights overhead.
And so much space there’s nothing to think about except something resembling god.
Now they’re saying the virus spreads by talking and breathing. We can kill each other just by being a person.
