A stark contrast to this time last year.
Sweet distractions tame Sunday’s whipping thoughts.
Words coupling up on an autumnal page.
Unromanticizing the ego to make way for something new.
“It’s better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self” Cyril Connolly
Watching a friend move through the mud.
Inspiration is not hand-picked.
I do: two small words sealed her fate in more ways than one.
Forces are pulling us in every direction and drowning out our own needs.
Letting go of the leaves that hold fast to us.
You shouldn’t assume you have a hold on this.
Another night of broken slumber leaves them in the dark.