I’m not setting out to accomplish any goals. I am merely putting forth an idea. The idea is person of the earth who gives a shit. In the words of much tougher and brighter men than myself, it’s ungentlemanly to go on about this diet, and that workout, and this exercise, and what I’m avoiding, supplementing, and calculating based on hours of sleep.
I think I can do this, and even if I can’t—no one gets hurt. Not even me.
I tried to remember a dream as I ran through the park. The only thing I remember is speaking to a woman who wanted to giver her boyfriend a poem for his birthday. She showed me what she had, and it was in another language. It was messy. I told her I would set about to write a poem for her. I asked her for two words. For the life of me I can’t remember what they were.