whirlpooled topics unbackspaced. streams of consciousness. blurts. scribbled notes. outlined ideas. velocity waves. snatches from icloud. because self-editing is a writer’s cowardly way of preventing a reader from fucking the writer's confidence. dates don't matter. memories and moments aren't chronologically marked on the soul.


Grief demands to be addressed. As much as hunger. Thirst. 

I can listen to her songs. I don’t grieve. I can see her picture. I don’t grieve. But I grieve while I breathe. Grief is like stepping into a sudden shadow. My soul unexpectedly seems sallow: unhealthy - deprived - bloodless. I feel shaded from the shines. And trapped inside glass. Removed. Grief has drawn me from humanity.