Disheveled, bleary-eyed, pajama-clad. I fumble with my glasses as I pad into the living room.

I should work out. I should check my email. I should brush my teeth.

Email wins, as always. I sit, click, read.

Two new Twitter followers.
A question from a client.
Sale on Viagra.
Lost!

Time slips by like a beautiful stranger in a crowd. There’s plenty, then there’s none, then I’m late. What is so compelling about this arrangement of pixels on a backlit screen?

An image surfaces. Ten years old, I sit in the treehouse and punch sticky keys on a beat-to-hell Commodore. Line numbers denote the hours of effort I pour into the yellowed plastic. A blinking green cursor keeps the beat. I check, I correct, I execute. A man runs across the screen, bounces off the edge, falls. I laugh. I have created life. There is so much yet to do, but the foundation is laid. The possibilities are endless.

The power flickers and the man is drowned in a field of random characters. I regard the screen, understand the analogy, and unplug the computer.

Joy from a box. I delete the last of the spam and stretch. Priorities, I think to myself, and I turn my thoughts to the day ahead. Must keep one’s priorities.

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – -

I normally wouldn’t do this to you–this being inflict my prose upon such hapless innocents–but the lit mag Big Lucks launched yesterday, and I’m quite excited to land a copy. If I manage to get my narratives up to snuff, who knows–I may even submit and get a rejection letter from them. (Of course, it will be dutifully reprinted so you can share in my success.) Support the arts, y’all.