To call these acts wild, to see them as separate parts of consciousness, is to be a tourist in your own city.
I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
On chasing ecstasy, finding tenderness, creating art, and experiencing motherhood.
“Who was this self-appointed vigilante of this street of ours? Why was he so invalid? No one seemed to have a story about him.”
“You tell the real estate guy it’ll be your weekend place. You tell yourself you’re going to get a lot of writing done here.”
She thought she was probably hugging a murderer.
“I made Ryan feel like his New Balances were snakeskin boots.”
“Living alone as a woman is not just a luxury but a refusal to bend.”
“But I did not want to feed a baby rabbit to anything or anyone.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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