I guess I find the boundaries between poetry and prose to be somewhat permeable.
To understand the world, oneโs place in it, is to be always at the risk of drowning.
The war came to me in my dreams and showed me its sole purpose: to go on, only to go on.
The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.
I've been writing poems and stories since I was about 13.
Michael Koryta's THOSE WHO WISH ME DEAD is an absolutely thrilling read. I read most of it with my breath held, occasionally exhaling to ask myself, 'What will happen next?' I highly recommend it.