We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
We are living this life where everyone we encounter is just a version of ourselves, the same as in dreams. How long have we been imagining shapes in the clouds? Or telling stories?
It is a small but very precious part of me hanging in our front window.
It’s a game where there is no winning, only the joy in the odd and unexplained.
I started to learn that to write is to live, and you can’t do much of the former without the latter.
The fallacies and paradox of separating work from life.