They say liquidity is freedom. I say balance is a myth marketed to those already on their knees. A piece about learning to stack the weight of eggs against eternity.

From the Latin marcescere: to wither, to fade, but not yet to fall. The retention of dead plant matter on a tree through winter, when in most species it would have been shed. A piece about two trees, two kinds of grief, and the strange envy of those who let go.

A candy wrapper in a gutter. The end of the universe. Somehow, the same thing. A short piece about the things that outlast their own occasion.

There is the self who counts the spoons and rehearses the names of the dead. There is the self already at the door in her good coat. This piece lives in the room between them: the one that belongs to no one, the one that will be there after you leave.

"The year of the panini press was a year. It was a press year. A cheese year. A year that pressed and pressed again."

“To finish oneself is to become tedious…” A brief meditation on resisting completion and the absurd business of becoming.