Your life becomes a constant progress of trying to sleep at night and work during the day — at least until you realize the utter impossibility of that endeavor, until you surrender to the fact that you’ll wake with full intention at 11 a.m. and instead spend four hours gazing at social media for some purpose you’ll justify to yourself somehow.
Only rising stars can master their own universe. That sentence, for instance, is a perfect example my capabilities as a poet. One who was quite well compensated for his wordsmithage, don’t forget. But money and power are not enough for some people, meaning me.
Now I live in an ungentrified neighborhood in Brooklyn. I dress way too arty for anyone not involved in high fashion or living off a trust fund. I write too much poetry.