I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.

I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

I'm not a general or a colonel or a builder of cities. I'm just a corpse who wants not to be.

My favorite songs change every year.

I feel the flatline of my existence disrupting, forming heartbeat hills and valleys

It’s sad to see them staring wistfully through the window when the door isn’t locked.

I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.