Towns change; they grow or diminish, but hometowns remain as we left them.
Smoke veils the air like souls in drifting suspension, declining the war's insistence everyone move on.
Literature can teach us how to live before we live, and how to die before we die. I believe that writing is practice for death, and for every (other) transformation human beings encounter.
The writing life is a secret life, wither we admit it or not.
I wish I had more time to write.
As before, there is a great silence, with no end in sight. The writer surrenders, listening.