Writing In Oblivion
My old journals were for me. Writing is for me. I lost my way so many times because of the rigors of the Internet and the FOMO one gets from being micro-successful in a niche product that exists to resell you your own stuff. Building this site and pouring my letters into it is the antidote. I still harbor odd wishes that someone from The Paris Review or The New Yorker will happen upon this asteroid of a site and fall in love. Here, I wait.
Dump Truck
Sometimes it feels like a dump truck pulled into your yard while you were sunbathing and decided to unload a bed of sand onto you. You became the sandcastle. Your day became the shells washing back out to sea. The seagulls picked nits out of your hair. You submerged yourself endlessly so the dream would stop. You woke up.