Welcome y’all wanderers, and fellow troglodytes (especially now, during these current times while trapped in our quarantined bunkers, and our underground hovels).

My name for the time-being shall simply be Mr. Management.

But first, a bit of an explanation.

Every morning, a dreary-eyed man-child as it were, would stumble groggily from the burrito that was his bed, shake the sleep from his eyes, then muster the last remaining grain of hope/spirit left bottled in his belly, to help tackle the coming day. He’d sit up on the edge of his lopsided bed, and meditate for a solid 20 minutes. Once done with that, he’d move to the desk, then write from a random stream of his batshit consciousness, for a timed duration of about ten minutes. This precisely is what we will be posting here.

It’s all quite slapped together, including this horrid little intro. So if you manage to find your way in, then I’m sorry for your sanity, or if, in any way, you’ve at all been inconvenienced.

Otherwise, the door is to your left, you’re welcome to leave as easily as you came in.

But that’s all for now; you can at least try to enjoy yourself. God knows that I am.

Best always,
Mr. Management

Artwork by Gris Grimly.

*Written from deep within the study of my own private hell, on March 30, 2020.