A hand-drawn holiday card.
Uninterrupted, coma-like slumber.
Volume II of The Bloom County Library.
Frost limning the windshield on a weekend morning.
Yuletide merriment, seasonal good feeling.
The opposite of writer’s block.
Looper, or maybe Contagion.
Metallic keychain of less-than-immediate provenance, definition, or purpose.
A work week without meetings.
Hours upon hours reading, with my son.
A sudden burst of speed.
Parking near the entrance.
Good tickets to something, anything.
Neil Young, Psychedelic Pill.
A cologne that successfully projects sophistication and mystery; ponderous cologne.
A Serenity Prayer tattoo in a distressed Black Metal band font.
The sun rising on the horizon.
An out-of-the-blue invitation to contribute artistically to an outlet that is, arguably, above my station and ability.
Unexpected songs capable of rewiring my cerebral circuitry without disarming me.
Just a tie, any tie.
The experience of hallowed Christmas standards minus any attendant, buzz-killing derision.
Justice, or a reasonable enough facsimile.
A handful of dust.
An imperfect but largely acceptable steward to steer the domestic economy into calmer waters.
Rachel Maddow, Drift.
A phone booth-sized Buddha machine I can climb into and close behind me, that when locked from the inside becomes indiscernible to the outside world, so a pocket dimension kind of deal—like how when I was a kid I would imagine that heaven was just a comfortable isolated space where I could eat and endless supply of Dunkin’ Donuts and drink vanilla milkshakes and just read a mountain of comic books, forever—only, you know, this would be more of an adult-life-is-bullshit decompression chamber sort of thing.
Baltimore Ravens circling the Super Bowl.
Happy holidays texts from unfamiliar numbers.
A mere illusion of certainty.