Each one of us are curating our own reality, our own collections.

Philosophy is a crooked thumb trying to hitch a lift to the stars.

I listen to the wind sing, but can’t understand the words. The No Trespassing sign posted on the wooden fence bordered my apartment complex was no longer securely fastened and I heard it rattling and creaking as the wind blew. I know several people who can translate wind. I haven’t seen any of them in a while.

The silence in a snowy landscape informs you, in no uncertain terms, that God is listening.

I have often recalled, and I have often dreamed, and everything else feels like excess.

A story is simply the means by which a voice knows itself speaking, and other voices speaking listening in time.

Other voices speaking listening to other voices speaking listening is the bread and butter of storytelling, its mother node and simulcast nature.

There are visions everywhere voicing themselves. And the same is true in reverse.

Mom that seems to be everywhere all at once: Momnipresent.

Mom that seems to know everything you are doing always: Momnisicent.

I have always depended on the kindness of solitude to warmly acquaint me with words.

There are sentences I have yet to meet. I wonder if we’ll hit it off.