Prose that lives outside the blog. Fragments, reflections, half-finished thoughts given just enough shape to share. Written for no reason other than the need to write.
It isn't black. It's the particular shade of a room lit only by the idle glow of a monitor — a colour that doesn't have a name because no one thought to look at it long enough to give it one.
Before the first draft, there's the draft you write only to yourself — in the shower, in traffic, on the edge of sleep. This is an attempt to write that draft down before it disappears again.
She counted seventeen steps going up, sixteen coming down. She never mentioned it to anyone. The house had been lying to her for years and she had only just noticed.
Not what you'd expect. Not deep things. Just the ordinary background noise of a mind left unsupervised — half-formed arguments with people who aren't there, half-remembered songs, the nagging sense of something unfinished.
Monday the size of a continent. Tuesday, a narrow peninsula. Wednesday almost disappeared entirely. By Friday I had mapped enough of it to see it clearly: a place I had been before, and left before, and would leave again.
You've been the main character of your own life for so long that you forget you're also appearing briefly, wordlessly, in dozens of other stories happening right now — and that's fine. More than fine. It's a relief.
On the day the last native speaker of a language dies, the birds still sing in that language. No one notices. The words drift up and scatter. This is a story about what comes next.
I have been collecting theories about why rain makes people feel more productive and less alone. All of them are probably wrong. Here are the best ones so far, in no particular order.
There's a version of this piece I will never publish. This is the version I kept. It is honest in the ways the other version wasn't, and dishonest in different ways I haven't fully mapped yet.
The colour you call your favourite isn't the one you find most beautiful. It's the one you trust. There's a difference, and it matters in ways that go far beyond interior design.
He left his umbrella by the door. She left her reading glasses on the windowsill. The apartment held their shapes for a while, the way a mattress holds a body — then forgot, the way a mattress also eventually forgets.
One phone charger. Two mugs. The feeling of having been thoroughly known and the strange lightness that comes once you're no longer being known. A running list of what's left.
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