This May Sound like Jibberish to You, but I Think I Am In A Tragedy.

I want to be an author.

I want to write stories about 20-something girls named Maddie Crane, who walk down gray suburban streets in the middle of winter and wear lime green hoodies and patent leather shoes.

I want to sit on city transits and contemplate plot development. Character death. Sentence structure.

I want to sit in front of my macbook for days on end in a red cardigan sweater and flannel pajamas surrounded by empty take-out cartons and with my phone off the hook. I want my neighbor to leave post-its on my door for my friends in black sharpie. She's dead this time, I swear.

I want shadows under my eyes and inky fingertips.