Muddy Winters

I remember when I first learned to write. That's how significant it was to me. I was six, and we used that pulp paper that was half blank for drawing, and half lined for writing. I remember having the realization of stringing words together, and then sentences. 

In my life, I've done two types of writing: I write love stories, and I write poems. I write the love stories to use my gift of limerance. I can create hope where there is none, I can make something out of nothing. These are the stories I would tell myself to stay alive, and that is how I know they're good: they were good enough for me. 

The stories here read like the universe is playing a practical joke on you because everything adds up in symbolism and it probably is anyway with your luck. I write for those maladaptive daydreaming through life otherwise dissociated. These are stories of the long game, of kismet, of planetary movement, and of gravity; these are the stories of souls jump-cabling through time.

The works savor everyday happenings with the magical eye of seeing it all for the first time. Having the most ultraviolet purple prose, and lovingly oversaturated symbolism they have a technicolor quality suitable for anyone who aches with autumn in their bones as the light gets low in August or built fairy houses as a kid. Setting and emotional resonance intermingle musically in a synesthetic experience that aims to cross the senses leading to a fresh and memorable experience with every piece.