Every time I devise a plan, I realize it’s going to fail the moment I enact it.
If you wake up in the morning early and jog, you can wander back towards home in a circle around the city block and press your coffee, drawing it from the pot. It makes sense to sit on the back porch and drop your feet across the steps while you watch the steam rise from the cup, lighting a cigarette. The smoke is thick in the cold air, a combination of the steam of your breath and the burning tobacco drifting out of your lungs. You pull out your phone and check it for messages. You think about calling your dad. You drink the coffee, which has quickly cooled.
