I think I’ve smoke five cigarettes in the past fifteen minutes.
I’m playing phone-tag with a fellow named Sean M. He called and left me a voicemail after I replied for an ad seeking newspaper delivery drivers. I like the idea of delivering newspapers, in this case the Chicago Tribune northwest edition. The pre-dawn hours are beautiful, peaceful, even in the cruel, cold air. I’m usually up around paper delivery time anyway, especially since I’ve lately been sleeping 2-3 times a day in fits that last 2-3 hours, or 4-5 if I’m lucky.
Plus, as newspapers continue to decline in circulation, I’ll have an opportunity to inhabit a dying profession. One day I’ll be able to relate stories to somebody’s grandkids, much like an alchemist did me one August afternoon, taking me upon his knee to illustrate his lore.
Dark December. I turn my chair, book in my lap, and rest my feet on my room’s heat registers, which are older than me, to warm my poor toes.
THE PUNK ROCK NEIGHBORHOOD 
I feel like this too, its kind of funny how we share such similar experiences of thought.