I prefer a pencil formed from cedar timber, painted, lacquered, imprinted with gold— Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed— a medium that will readily
Trying to suss out whether absence is enemy or friend, we sit side by side in Adirondack chairs, our minds in the flames licking
Pascal had it right: the raw night’s a riptide; oceans of emptiness yawn in its wake. On the thermostat screen, black tarp punctured by
“My father once said…’you should wait till people are dead to tell stories like that.’ Now people are dead and I am telling stories