So here I am, typing this from my laptop, looking out at a patio with exactly one surviving succulent. And for the first time, I think I’m okay with it.
I stand on a rooftop in a city that never sleeps. Below me, lights flicker in patterns no farmer could read. I grow nothing. I raise nothing. I kill nothing except time and a few brain cells on weeknights. My hands are soft. My nails are clean. My future is uncertain but not tied to a frost date.
