It was just after 4am when I turned the light off. This was last night, and as I consciously attempted to quiet my brain, I lay on my stomach and willed myself to sleep. My third consecutive day spent, in its entirety, at work. My eyes fluttered shut and I felt thankful that I’d get a full five hours of sleep. Now it’s nearing 1am, just about 24 hours later, and I’m overeagerly writing in anticipation of the sleep — a glorious 8 hours or more tonight — that will follow.

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I tried and tried, but I can think of nothing sexier than riding the bus. I was once enamored by the golden chariots, hailed at the curb and made to whisk us about as we lounge in the hushed, leather interior, but I grew lonesome. I longed for the bleeding humanity of close quarters and the tiny moments of eye contact. The subtle body contact of sitting side-by-side, unified by the pureness of simply living.

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Far and away the most difficult part of upholding a promise to write every day is coping with days that stretch into weeks where you feel inspired by nothing. You sit down to write and find a vast wasteland where not a single thought is of interest. As evidenced by posts like these, I am going through one such stretch.

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In 2008, Barack Obama ran for President with the campaign slogan “Hope”. Hope means a lot of things, and there are many things to hope for, but in his recent address to the Cuban people he gave what could be considered a definition for a certain type of hope. It’s the type of hope that I have when I think about not just the future of the United States but of the whole world.

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I was taught: if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all. But sometimes you have nothing to say anyways, and that’s nice too.

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