horror
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The last live performance I saw didn’t have curtains or spotlights—just an office, a boss, and a pathological liar with mascara and crocodile tears.
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The desert doesn’t care about your plans. This was the first lesson Jack Write learned when he traded his graduate thesis on Kierkegaard’s concept of despair for a tool belt and a 1998 Ford F-150 with questionable AC. The second lesson: heat warps everything—glass, metal, morals. Palm Springs at 3:17 PM was a study in
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I hit a dead end today. No sirens, no flashing lights—just a flat, unblinking fact. The road stopped, and so did I. You get to a dead end one of two ways. Sometimes you see it coming, the signs piling up like cracked pavement, and you still drive toward it, half-curious, half-resigned. Other times it
BB Grey--musings 