Beautiful Pain
Pain and beauty, are they dissimilar? Can pain ever be beautiful? I think it can. No kind of sensation is keener and more active than that of pain. Its impressions are unmistakable. It can charm us from our mortal guise and remind us of the…
The Weight of Ink
We are taught that time is a river. It is not. Time is a stack of papers, folded and unfolded, passed from hand to hand until the edges fray. Each morning, the world is printed anew, a fresh layer of ink to cover the silence of the night. We…
The Weight of Evening
The air tastes of woodsmoke and grit, a dry, metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat long after the sun has surrendered. There is a specific ache that settles in the marrow at the end of a long day—a heavy, dull thrumming in the…