The only thing that’s expected of me is the only thing I want to do. That is called luck. Luck is to own a thicker meaning of existence, a place inside you shelled off from flabby friends and exhaustion without purpose: I’m on a one-lane road in a thick metaphorical forest with no distractions. Everything I do is intentional. To arrive at the end of the road is to know Glory in the biblical sense, to put your paternity in Glory.
