The least I can do is to observe, document, and call attention to the ceaseless disasters.
I watched my creative friends and learned how they made time for art: They stole their time back from the things that didn’t matter.
I'm thinking of this less as a temp contract and more as a writer's residency.
I miss her already, that’s the thing. I’ve been expecting to miss her for a long time.
I want to poke around inside the brain, unroll the wrinkled cortex into a flat, creased sponge and map anger’s coordinates.
