It doesn't make me happy my name on a wall on a wall that will crumble is crumbling there is no permanent mountaintop there is no plateau of accomplishment there is no finish line this race is not a line it is not a race it is a fabric you thread yourself to as it changes always changes always leaves even as you hold it every entrance already an exit it doesn't make me happy my name on a wall it doesn't make me happy this feigned permanence I want to judge my life by the depth of love I've given to fleeting moments not the surfaces I was able to cover spreading myself so thin just to stamp it everywhere
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We Are Drowning, How Should We Kill Our Time?
PoetryThis collection of stream of consciousness prose was written during a very special time in my life. I left the city following a massive burnout, and lived in the country for months. I began a garden, cut most of my ties to the outside world, and wro...
