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I've been avoiding this thing for some time.
Writing by hand.
Keeping it locked away in little black books.
Perhaps I'll post backwards.
The more sure I become of my history.
It is hard to know when a story can be told.

Its mid morning, The air is still cool out and blowing through the open windows of my apartment. I probably wont leave all day, except perhaps to buy a pack of cigarettes or to the grocery store to pick up an intentionally missing ingredient needed for dinner. The only task I have to accomplish all day. I’ll break myself away from the computer in ( Read more... )

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I left before sunrise to begin my journey to work. I traveled first by train, then bus, subway. and then by foot. I walked through neighborhoods where years previously I would have feared to tread. The young men are on corners, ball caps pulled low covering watchful eyes. Children playing on sidewalks passing in front of the old men in chairs with ( Read more... )

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