There’s gotta just gotta be another floor in this building. This can’t be the top. But after this past weekend and some emotional excavation, coupled with a dose or three of chatting with the inner circle, I wonder. So much delivers us to one long echo chamber of us trying to convince each other that we’re on the path. And if we keep taking steps, we’ll get there. Where (the fuck) is there anymore? So many hours swinging tools and standing against a bench so that an appliance company can come in and rewrite the narrative? For a few years the answer was easier with Laphroaig. Lately I only hear the bell ring if I cozy up to some Edy’s Mint Chocolate Chip. This can’t be the top.
All This By Hand
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