I enjoy learning and experiencing new things. life happens and i write about it.

finishing school, exploring some publishing opportunities.

over analyzing things.

I am an American aquarium drinker

this is a big subject. i consider every piece of written and recorded expression integral to a sincere critique of any piece of art. without binary contrast or plenary knowledge and access to contradictory expression, what does one's understanding of said art really amount to?

books, pens, paper, papers, trees, all of the things that can live with, upon and/or under these items

“don’t feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.”

~ Charles Bukowski

working, studying, writing. hemorrhaging brilliance with nothing more than a blinking cursor.

i'll try to describe the way that it felt to
tell my own mother her son is a failure.
his heart is too cold to love anyone but himself.
it's like stabbing an icicle straight through your chest.
your whole body shivers as it coarses your blood.
and your quivering throat keeps
choking on those words,
mama i tried a thousand times
i'm frozen to the core.
your son is a glorious mess,
who wrecks anything he adores.
but deep in his center he swears
there’s a candle just waiting to burn. and melt.

(The Good Life, 'What We Fall For When We're Already Down')

Le Pelin pedi i lam edhellen