I strike a match and light the cigarette.
It's cold and there's a breeze but the flame catches long enough to light it before flickering out. I pull hard to keep it lit and hit PLAY.
The chords start, real rock. It's elation, really.
I start walking and I think, "How much do I love this song?" and as I watch the sun set down Broadway, covering southwest Manhattan with a pink mess of pollution and heaven, I say aloud "THIS much." Just another New York crazy.
You say rock 'n roll is dead? Maybe YOUR rock and roll, but mine is alive and well.
I ride on it for blocks, see the red hand flashing telling me to wait but I bound through the intersection anyway, and as I stop at the median I toss the cigarette into a dirty puddle.
It makes a satisfying sizzle.

Change, not greatness

I'm not known for my writing. I'm not known for much, actually. I would never call myself a writer; I'm a reader, a listener, and a talker. My usual subject is myself. It's hard to claim expertise on many other subjects, wouldn't you agree? I don't like saying things unless I'm sure.

So here I'm going to say, I'm not going to produce greatness here. I might not even produce anything interesting. I'm just going to try something different. I'll do some meditations on things outside myself, some poems that I was too scared to share to the world or even my friends, rave about things I'm passionate about, books and music, consider why things are the way they are and tell you things I think you should know.

The difference between this and other journals or writings I've kept is that I aim to make this more formal, if not more serious than other sources. I won't make you listen to stories about my romances or parties or my day to day tedium. I'll try to keep it to genuine attempts at writing and do my best to not throw out every piece of writing in a dissatisfied defeatist rage.

Things to come in the future:
-Storytelling
-Lost pennies
-Love
-Drugs