This path? This path I'm walking on?

It takes me to the market, that's what it does—despite the ticklish ascent. Thankfully I have these headphones pumping out deep, soulful house, so I boogie up that hill no matter how steep it is. Been doing the plank, you know, flexing that core. The work—gets me where I gots to go. Sure enough though, $40 dollars, it’s what I have in my pocket. And I’m proud of that. Pushed around some snow the other day. So yeah. I know I need a lemon. I'll figure out the rest after I make me a complimentary cup of coffee at the customer service desk, with the raw sugar and the oat milk—so generous, but also: check your rear-view, tend to those side mirrors, because you just might get an elbow in the rib if you’re not swizzle-sticking fast enough. So I bide my time and observe, entertained by the ballet of self determination and civility while simultaneously pondering my provisions list. You see, I consider myself a connoisseur of sorts: pine nuts, sun dried tomatoes, these kinda things. Just last week I bought this righteous bag of Nicaraguan dark roast thanks to a timely bit of freelance, which was auspicious, considering, on that very same day, I helped a friend move out of their shanty because the roof collapsed after twelve nights of relentless cats and dogs. My sodden comrade, so compassionate, just trying to make ends meet. Anyways, it’s a happy ending—because now we're shackin’ up!—dancing about the kitchen, praising our good fortune, preparing the mise en place. But enough about sustenance:

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