We are animated by a force that inhabits this shell, bound to it.
We didn’t move to the beach for that, we moved there to postpone growing up for one more summer.
It is a small but very precious part of me hanging in our front window.
Maybe the art was in the refashioning of otherwise useless things.
I started to learn that to write is to live, and you can’t do much of the former without the latter.
The problem started with the awareness that the days were blurring together with little to set them apart.