This is all that I’ve given: Three years. Six months. Three weeks. Three days.

This is the analogy: In the end what happened was that I sat in the middle of a dark room, my breaths developing like photographs resurfacing through the thin pull of light: colours, threads of them, runnels across the matte surface, of people in my hands, against them ( Read more... )

若是我能活在您的世界里，我看我早已开心多了．
看着你成长，也许跟你说说笑笑-
知道吗，一次，我梦到了我们．我看着你在太阳下跑．阳光下，你的头发看起来就是火红色．看到你那么开心，我也不禁笑了起来．

虽已经过了七年．我还想着你．

在脑海里，那时时间过得好快．我的心也是随着蹦蹦跳．
蛮残酷哦．我们这两儿分开的世界．

Every year and a half or so I get punched in the gut by some form of metaphysical Japanese crack. I should just learn the language and live in a little hut in the mountains, surrounded by piles of comics depicting sweaty basketball players, all day, every day ( Read more... )

When I was twelve I would crack open the window and press my palms to the glass, feel the air cut across my face, surprisingly gentle for the harsh noise it would make. How small I felt in relation to the way the wind worked, but yet how content. In those days, I didn't feel that life was short of a miracle ( Read more... )

I haven't been keeping up with the memories, but I was struck by one suddenly while listening to Kate Walsh on the guitar ( Read more... )

I'll walk you through this ( Read more... )

I was reading through my fiction archive yesterday, and I miss how words used to come so easily. Now, I am trying to remember everything so I can write about memories. Remembering is difficult without photographs, and writing more so, but I'm trying, at least, to get back into this daily habit ( Read more... )

I fell asleep reading a book, something that hasn't happened in over a decade. I've forgotten what it's like to feel pages turning, almost, the words under fingers, undulating with my even breaths. I've always wondered, at what point does the reader become the story? (It cannot and should never only be the other way around; I'd like to think that ( Read more... )

Tuesday: He walks on the beach, and the sand is fine enough to grind his feet smooth without him hurting. He’s gone that many days without them bared to light; they’re always clenched up in boots so tight his nails are stubs. He is thinking. He makes a list. His nails smell like tobacco, palms like fruit skins, elbows like sand. Neck like the oily ( Read more... )

So, having quit my job as a schoolteacher, I'm now a Microsoft Excel slave. The joy this gives me is indescribable.

At least I can afford sushi on weekends.