Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.
When small towns find they cannot harm the strangest of their members, when eccentrics show resilience, they are eventually embraced and even cherished.
Power travels in the bloodlines, handed out before birth.
Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?
I spend most of my time writing.
Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.