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There are clothes over junk mail, next to a book on yoga, next to a pocketful of change, next to an empty paper towel roll on the counter, next to a sink full of dishes. There are flip flops under the counter, slip-ons by the door, running shoes kicked against opposite walls in the bedroom, a disheveled row of shoes I keep around just in case I get back into basketball or golf or wearing suits. Shirts crawl out of my hamper like zombies from a grave, missed sock-shots surround it, other clothes are piled against the wall. At least the bed is made, my bed is always made. There are stacks of books I intend to read on the desk under stories I’ve written and notes from notes from a hands-on assist workshop. The bathroom could use a scrub down.

When I get carried away with everything else life tosses at me, I lose focus. My apartment is a direct reflection of my life when I’ve been running around and how I’m feeling. When it’s a mess, I’m stressed. Wh… Read More

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