I like to hear from my readers, and I like to feel like I'm part of a bigger community of readers and writers.

This is Rilke. I wish I had written it for you.

Good morning. You have a moment?" It's clever the way she says it, not as a question. I would have to contradict her in order to have my moment back. I make a note to use the method in the future.

It occurred to me then that I was the opposite of my father. Because I was very, very good at destroying things.

I could have screamed, but I didn’t. I could have fought, but I didn’t. I just lay there and let it happen, watching the winter-white sky go gray above me.

Everything mattered and nothing did, and I was tired of trying to find out how both of those things were true. I was an itch that I'd scratched so hard I was bleeding. I had set out to do the impossible, whatever the impossible might be, only to find out that it was living with myself. Suicide became an expiration date, the day after which I no longer had to try.

Clutter is my natural habitat.