Improve the darkness. Scatter it with stars, the way a dream permits hyperbole. The way a diary recommends the ordinary, the priest’s devotions, the
Even the Mojave has plenty––dunes moon-white in moonlight, indigo space so full of stars they powder it like tunes from planet radio, prayers from
after Marie Kondo Let everything you own pass through your hands and keep only what brings you joy. You’ll never have to do it