The Weight of Sustenance
It is 3:14 am. The house is quiet, but my stomach is restless, a hollow reminder that we are biological machines fueled by things that die so we might continue. We spend our days pretending that eating is a social grace, a polite ritual performed…
The Weight of Petals
I keep a pressed daisy inside a heavy dictionary, its stem now brittle as a dry twig and its color faded to the shade of old parchment. It was plucked during a summer that felt like it would never end, back when the hours were measured only…
The Weight of Faded Gold
I often find myself walking down the narrow lanes of the Belgian Quarter in Cologne, where the architecture feels like a conversation between the past and the present. There is a particular hour in late autumn when the light hits the brickwork…