I remember for a brief period of a few months or so, when I carried a little black notebook in my pocket. It hardly got used. The idea behind it came one day when I concluded in my head that if I always had a notebook and pen I would jot down more of my ideas. Then, I would revisit this collection of ideas for long drawn out, winded, overexplained, and fucking dense monologues on the human condition.

These days, I wish I had kept up with that. Not because I think the ideas would be great to revisit, but rather that I would have a less formal place to place my thoughts. My main blue notebook I’ve used for years tends to draw out elegant prose and melancholic dreams. It’s a stage performance of what words could be.