Be very careful. You’re slipping all too easily into middle age. You’re beginning to settle for things. You’re beginning to dislike those more active than yourself. You are becoming jealous of other people’s success. You’re slowly growing fat, pot-bellied. You look up to those who can order wine with confidence. You want to leave big tips. You feel too comfortable with elderly people. You are starting to know what you like, and you don’t like that. You’re opinions are infallible or non-existant. You no longer care. Your morals are waning. Your principles are eroding. You are giving up on art. You are scared of intrusion. You tell homeless people you have no change when in fact you do, telling yourself that you need it when in fact you don’t. You cannot talk with strangers. You cannot talk with artists. You say things are too expensive but you buy them anyway. Your walls are blank. Your songs are unfinished. You are unoriginal. You convince yourself that other people’s ideas are in fact your own. You tell the same stories to the same people, word for word. You are at once too sentimental and too ready to forget the past. Your future is uncertain. You are resigned to drift on the tide. You will take what comes, come what may. No one may sit in your chair. No one may read what you write, if you write. Your writing is patchy, weak. You cannot look outside of yourself. You cannot bear to finish. You do not strive for perfection. You are a snake contemplating its own tail. You are a camera filming a blank screen. You are in a vacuum. You may as well not be here. You may as well not be. You may as well not. You may as well. You may as. You may. You.