 
chicago: dumb as usual
this is the smallest kind of sadness, the saddest sort of small sadness, when you are self-consciously sad even while you're telling yourself not to be sad, to get un-sad, to get glad—or to get a grip—when your shoulders are aching from the backpack that has everything you have and you're walking alone on a silent street after having donated, in defeat, a precious $50 to an overly enthused LGBT canvasser who you didn't have the energy to refuse,
when you're lying clothes, boots on, on one of the two beds in the too-huge hotel suite you booked at a 65% discount, and think—this is the kind of moment that people write poetry abou chicago: dumb as usual
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Sta.sh
