november 4 2023

I’m in Brighton, at the airport hotel.

I have 4 and a half hours to get some sleep. I can hear the man in the room beside me coughing. He sounds sick. My hair is wet from the shower and my feet are cold. The heat isn’t working and the kettle is lined with a chalky, questionable substance. I get into bed with my socks on.

I work all the time because it’s the only thing I know how to do well - without doubt, without reluctance, without overthinking, without wondering about the balance of give and take. Work is the only thing that gives back to me, freely and with no strings attached, no baggage. I want to make enough money to leave anytime, anywhere, whenever I want. I want to make enough money to shoot myself into space, to graze the other stars with my fingertips, to kiss the sun. 

I think people are so complicated - myself, especially. I’ll never understand but I can pretend. I haven’t spoken to one of my best friends in a month and I think I feel fine. We had a fight that felt like the last straw. I think about her a lot but I always change the subject. I don’t let myself dwell. Instead, I think about the show we just played. 

The leaves outside the venue are all turning brown.