the doctor

The Doctor is a character who, for literally thousands of years, and a neat baker’s dozen of faces, was a man. He would gallivant about space, he would fall in love with women, and he would go by pronouns he/him. He is now a she.

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when the haze in front of you is so thick that you can taste it, when its so dense that it blankets all of us, when its so toxic that it threatens to cull us one-by-one, how to we combat it?

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The door closes behind her with a clunk altogether far too loud.  Moments, lathered in thick tension, spent waiting before the elevator doors.  With strange man she invited into her home for an even stranger transaction, together uncomfortable now that it’s over.

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on motivation

after nearly thirty years of being alive I’ve come to, what I believe to be, a very concrete and irrefutable conclusion: that the hardest thing to do is to get out of bed every morning

that probably reads a little flip. does it dismiss the struggles of millions around the world? does it reduce the struggles of an individual to some pithy truism? does it ignore the multitudinous acts of living, the innumerable challenges of ambition, and replace them all with some lazy monkey-brained hurdle best left in the domain of reductive memes ping-ponged on millennial social media?

probably, but, here we are.

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