When someone is typing an iMessage to a number outside their contact list, who sees the ellipses on the other end?

There’s never enough time in the day to do all of the nothing you want to do in the face of everything you’re putting off.

Refreshing Facebook when you’re trying to work on a project is like using a sledgehammer to wash the dishes.

When the month ends and your Metropass expires and you watch the bus go by helplessly it is worse than having an eye plucked out.

Wanting to puke and cough at the same time while your insides threaten to burn out through your stomach because of anxiety you can’t control while you hold your girlfriend’s hand as you walk down Harbord Avenue is not a great feeling.

Standing outside the entrance to the twenty-four hour laundromat on Manning Avenue, waiting to see the apartment on the second floor. A formal queue. The guy who leans down to roll up his backpack says that he should have dressed up. “No,” he says afterwards. “I’m just joking.”

Staring at a red brick building while a man tries to talk to you on Manning Avenue and imagining yourself inhabiting the nothing that the building occludes: not its interior but the nothing. Residing in the brick somehow. Behind it. Inside the sunlight.

When middle-aged people talk about money it sounds like flesh being ripped off the skeletons of live spider monkeys.

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who create their own content, and people who write apps.

I’m exhausted. The term is almost over. I am working tonight. A presentation. I don’t want to think. I want to climb under the table and press my forehead into the ground. A kind of prayer. At the bar they were talking about strip clubs and Noor was trying to get my attention because she wanted to leave. Just to get anyone’s attention—not me for any special reason. I was the obvious one to interrupt, because I don’t know anything about strip clubs and didn’t feel engaged. I didn’t know why she was trying to get my attention. I had a headache. I didn’t acknowledge Noor. I responded to the conversation about strip clubs. Noor stood up and got everyone’s attention. Noor and Neil left. Neil took the conversation about strip clubs with him. I’m so tired. I want to lay in bed with Margeaux. I don’t want to write anything. I want to lie on the ground underneath a palm tree. I want a common household fern to sprout out of my chest. Or maybe my forehead. I will press my forehead to the ground until it springs a leak and a river flows out. I will press my forehead into the ground to demonstrate proper devotion. Proper fealty. To what or to whom? To everyone maybe. My sister’s dog died on Sunday. Many complications, no known cause. I loved that dog. Laura is leaving soon—another Laura, not my sister—back to BC. I’m afraid it will be a long time until I see her again. I want to express friendship-love. I am struggling with how to articulate that feeling properly. I will miss her. I’m worried that when I become tired I become boorish. I’m worried that the more tired I am the less able I am to moderate my boorish qualities… I worry that I was boorish in relation to Laura and to Noor earlier today. I wish I didn’t have a chip on my shoulder. I wish I held a perfect love in my heart and I was brave enough to extend that always. I wish my perfect love was radiant and pure and empty of human fleshiness. When classes are over and my last essays are handed in I hope to spend two weeks sitting in parks writing poetry and reading. I will walk long distances and perform this action out of love for everyone who has ever existed. I will try to dispose of myself as I work.