volume breaks apart the rhythm i come in like william carlos williams or bukowski turning into a skid on a good day more like doggerel
I am aiming at 5 different novels this year, and that way I might drag one over the finish line. I have only ever finished
I live inside a parable. I sit atop a mountain and people come and seeks wisdom from me. I write greetings cards and fortune cookies.
bolting together thoughts into poetry some people hold precious the thoughts about poetry and they never plant the seed enraptured by the dream of a
Hard work without a purpose seems like hard work. Why am I doing this? In what direction am I struggling? What is the end goal
a palatable disintegration it ticks the right boxes the squirm of despicable character the crumbling face and the excuses trot out we find the rot