I am a collector of details, minutia, tiny pieces of other’s lives. I’m pausing, by your side in the metro, wondering what you're reading, watching you turn the page or stare into the abyss; a thief of daydreams, of doldrums, a sifter of the of the better-left-unsaid.Read More
Sometimes I can’t remember what the stars look like. I spend my time walking city streets at a pace so quick I forget. Perhaps the lights are such that city life simply doesn’t lend itself to the idea of our own minutia.Read More
I remembered the last time I’d hugged her. The icy touch of her long fingers seeping through my shirt blurred the need to reconcile how one so mild and tender could be held erect by nothing but a beating pulse— a thudding chest and a razor spine, sharp enough to cut the palms of those who dared hold on too tight.Read More
We are a generation characterized by our glorification of wanderlust, a word so overused and over-though that it has been stripped of its beauty, emptied, exposed. A word degraded, perhaps, much as a view is rendered moot through the repetitive action of opening. It waits, arms flung wide and again, receiving the flocks of would-be dreamers, hopes pinned on avoiding the inevitable: themselves.
… Perhaps home has become a construct of distance.Read More