Yesterday, I spent the day sleeping away my life. It was peaceful, the blankets all clustered near the back porch door, and all the doors and windows on the first floor were left wide open. The sounds of wind and wind chimes, birds calling, the scent of trees,...
I want to get back into drawing, the pencil in my hand, the thick charcoal under my nails. I keep collecting spare pieces of paper, of cardboard, in the hope that something might happen. A horse, gray and white shadows, it appears—the long mane draped...
You should know by now that we can’t go back. Not like this. Not back through the electric fence or past the sheep, dehydrated and teeming. Past the mailboxes and songs. Our bodies are like their bodies now, stormed over and pale with all this sunlight and...
A promise of something small—and the skin warms. August 13, 2014, MLT
There was no other way to tell you that life was harmful: threw the box into the river, filled with rocks, with you, with light. There is nothing left but stars. August 12, 2014, MLT