Writing late into the night makes one’s very mind grow hair.

The wonderful moment of lifting one’s hands from an essay that feels finished. Singing it’s name on high.

I will go to bed tonight thinking about Kendrick and feeling blessed to be black in a way that feels to be summers in heaven + winters in Hell.

Thinking about the dreams of mad people in America and the fact that I share my birthday with Martin Luther King Jr. We, the dark + disabled, have dreams too.

And so it begins. The utter joy of a story telling you its’ name. I grasp its outstretched hand, and tell it mine.

Lucille Clifton wrote, “come celebrate with me”. I am celebrating with you, Lucille.

This country, this world, us. We are all worth saving.

I didn’t know I was going to write this today, but then again we never really know until we do.

She’s coming.