Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.
Musings on Literature & Life From Japan and east asia
Our story is never-ending.
That to say, I will always love you.
Aware of this dream state which is my tendency to romanticize the past.
I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.
I will be, act, speak with intention.
I will be finished, will shop my novel.
A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,
I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?
The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes. Oh, no. Not again. I bury face into the scarf. Traces of fig leaf and sandalwood bring her rushing […]
“I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Feel the sun beating over my brow, speckled and damp and her brow wet like honey. The blood rushing and wet like honey. The blood rushing. The beating heart in Kansas City. The honeyed skin, the beating hearts, the beating suns. Wet like honey. A triangle […]