this morning #76.

this morning, everything was coming up roses, or so he supposed. upon waking, he learned that his boss had either been drunk or had stumbled into another epiphany. the flowery language of a 3am mass text message dropped the news that, just in time for the quickly-approaching end of summer, they would now be having “summer fridays.” the day was now his to do as he pleased. what he pleased was to smoke some weed, ride his bike through the city of roses down to the water, lay out the ol’ outdoor blanket & crack open his new copy of white fragility. as he rode his way through the canopied streets, the calm air breezed past him. the abbey road medley played in his head. he didn’t even see the car.