future and past, as present as now — with the dawn of dreams - i remembered, i remembered, and i toasted, toasted — to those days where i frolicked with fear in the fields of future — in that magic country that lay cradled in the palms of mountains that held an ancient acquaintance with the secrets of…

mid-night stories spun with rain — I wish that I can undress my mind of its stories, like slipping off a dinner party dress before bed. to feel fully this midnight moment. a flickering candle, a cooling cup of tea. past 3 am, a fresh autumn rainstorm, the patter of water ruthless on the porch roof. …

knowing the unknown — everything’s too much and not enough everything’s burning, ascending like fire, and overflowing, spilling over into all the corners like water — everything’s alive and open — (still, everything’s afraid) too much much-ness and just enough space still, to hold it everything’s contained but slipping, slipping through — spilling… unfurling…

stream of consciousness is a lazy river, is an ocean of chaos, is a tired brook dense with silt and old rocks, grey from all the time spent out in the sun. stream of consciousness is a gash of Life in a parched desert, is the spill of soul when…

This article was birthed on a dejectedly sunny day. The kind of day where the sidewalks shimmer silver, where there’s a graciousness to everyone’s mouths at the supermarket — the kind of day that, if you don’t feel like “I’ve made it,” you don’t appreciate at all. I’m a sucker…

why I struggle with storytelling — You meet them once in a while. The ones with a fierce gaze of confidence and slow cadenced voice. The ones who hold the attention of the entire table, almost lazily. …

picking up the pieces — in my dreams I was a bird flying through a storm of ash over a city laid bare with its longing for ‘normal’ (a bear in a bush roaring with the tide) the hours are sure to undress you. it starts out calm- a hush of whisper over a glassy…

map the meaning — There’s just not enough hand, To hold all this sky, Not enough dusted land, To hold the weight of your sigh. There’s just not enough lip, To form all the words, So that they can gracefully slip, Cry the truth like wild birds. There’s just not enough skin, To blanket…