Broken winged doves leap from their pens far above fifth avenue. As they plummet to the concrete below, they squawk and holler and they twist and turn, feathers falling from their being. Just before they near their unquestionable fate, they awake in their beds, silently awaiting the morning’s first light.

Nonsense. Words. Some grand opening to supplement the reality that my skills as a writer are weak. I’d be better off spending the morning making eggs and preparing myself for another round in the squared circle that is my everyday life.

Eggs and cheese and a little bit of salsa. One french press of coffee. A quick shower and a thousand miles in the truck.

Fast food is for fat folks and the uninitiated.

Fat food is for fast folks and the unintended.

Fat fast is for folks food and the uncircumcised.

Text message. Chat room. Pedaling squares down in the basement inside a circle of my middle-aged peers. Acceptance. Inclusion. A trip to Arkansas. A trip to St. Louis. A trip to Madison. Rinse. Repeat. Repent.

That’s all.