90 days of shelter

i have a home. i have my own carpet. a place i am safe to lay down. to be a naked spirit. to do nothing.

it is mine. my floor. my walls. my bare carpet to make carpet angels. to stretch. to lay. to be.

hardwood floors i can yoga on.

a stainless steel kitchen to conjure health.

it is mine. this is my space. my space.

no couches, no airplanes, no crashing with friends, no airbnb, no hostels, no cars, no camper vans . . . mine.

no mindless chatter. no expectation. no television. no demands.

mine.

my home.

for three months.

i am in denver for 90 days.

90 days to explore myself and my desire.

90 days to decide if i want to run for senator of michigan

90 days to dig deep.

90 days to write and read in cafes.

90 days to take walks and talk to people on the street.

90 days to meet with brilliant minds and see clearly again.

90 days to do photoshoots, to paint, to draw, to dream.

90 days to explore.

june 27th i will have a plan. i will know what i want to do next.

the answer will reveal itself.

for now i am home. i am safe. in an empty apartment i don’t want to fill.

with carpet i want to lay on and rub my hands against until they tingle and grow hot.

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