I will admit, I was feeling a little down

“Relax, dude” my friend says to me.

“Even Bukowski worked at the Post Office.”

“i know. i know.”

“No, really.” he says.

(My friend can be persistent, sometimes.)

“For like 20 years or something this guy hunched over a workbench sorting mail. And the whole time he was writing all sorts of great shit.”

“yes.”

“You can’t get down,” he says.

“So you’ve got a day job. That’s just how it goes.”

(My friend can be very practical, sometimes.)

“Faulkner was also a Postmaster, I’ll have you know.”

“yeah?”

“Yes indeed,” he says.

“I think it’s obvious what you have to do.

You have to take the Civil Service exam.”

(My friend can be quite a joker, sometimes.)

“very helpful.”

“All I’m saying,” he says

“Is that you do what you gotta do for a paycheck.

Kafka worked in an insurance bureau.

Van Gogh clerked in a bookstore.”

(My friend can be surprisingly knowledgeable, sometimes.)

“I’m pretty sure Hemingway was a shepherd, for a little while.”

“you’re making it up, now.”

“Alright,” he admits.

“I made the last one up.

But hey, Stephen King taught history.

Keats was a pharmacist. Or, rather, a licensed apothecary.”

(My friend can be quite precise, sometimes.)

Dashiell Hammett was a private dick. Tracked down a guy who stole a ferris wheel once.

True story.”

“bad example. that's actually pretty cool.”

“My point is,” he says

“My point is that what you do to pay the bills is just how you survive.

What you love to do is what lets you really live.

I say that’s what counts.”

(My friend can be kind of deep, sometimes.)