I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
Now I’m half the stoner I used to be, liquor-free, and he’s gone.
Even on the loveliest days, there’s a feeling like the poignancy of watching your toddler waddle across a summer lawn.
I’d been living in a mine field, it seemed, and now all the bombs were going off at once.
I frog-kick closer, desperate to recapture what has been lost.
