It is 2026 and I just want to opt out of the race
poem
Constant reminders of our own mortality. Maybe I should just dance in my kitchen, drink that wine, quit my job, call her & tell her I love her, before it’s too late. But then again, they promise us a few good years at the end if we just work hard enough fast enough cheap enough if we buy enough, ignore enough-- if we obey enough
tysm for reading
oh bestie
This is so relatable (and beautifully written, too, Jack!)