Kitchen Table

At the kitchen table, you like to sit with your chin lodged between your knuckles. It makes your lips shape themselves into a heart. Your eyes reach upwards into the highest attic of your mind, where the dusty, reticent thoughts abide; like classic books written in languages modern people no longer speak. Specifically brood over words; the good ones: apricity, bungalow, dalliance, effervescent–mellifluous. You wonder how they fit together. You wonder if, someday, they will string a sentence that is all ever need be said about you. There are three other chairs around you, symmetrically placed under the table. Empty. A dozen sugar cookies bake in the oven.

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About

I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimumĀ selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.

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