There is something about falling asleep reading that makes dreams worth having. McCann, Hemingway, Lahiri, Austen. Typefaces leaving smudges on how we see ourselves. In the want or need to be someone more than we are we surrender ourselves to moments of being others. Even if our memories are formed between the lines of words we wished we said.
When everything around fades in fall dust, the huddling warmth creates a blanket of sun against the frost glistened ground.
The hornet and the maggot - a lesson in gluttonous shame.
Chaotic evidence of a childhood war left unfinished. The basement floor is a scrapbook of Saturday night's souvenirs.
Makes me wonder where our journey started?