From the archives: written October 30, 2018
How much depth I used to find in the late hour. Never lonely was a night where the left side of the brain took on qualities of a pretentious writer who created worlds without restriction. Page after page, verse after verse, not bound by rules but by a conviction that my truth is finally heard. I have a place. On blank canvases and pieces of paper – a woman, once tangled up in sheets of black, is born. Can I breathe life into her?