The insomniac has a song. It’s not a song, it’s a warble. It does math problems at 1:29 in the morning and curses at small bladders. It tallies up why the studies show that we lose two friends for every romantic relationship you gain and why it doesn’t matter. I kept things from you anyways. It … More Insomniac’s Rmble
There are two types of miss: the jagged kind that goes away and the prolonged type that never really does. It’s like knee-scrape pain and chronic pain. A note versus a chorus. The latter’s like a river with no mouth or end, it’s just flowing, flowing. And at the end of the hall are little … More Jagged
Crumbling concrete walls. Dilapidated trains. Bleak subway entrances. Clouds of vaguely formed color snake their way across the surface. Street art. It’s become an integrated chunk of most cities. In every city I’ve visited–Chicago! NYC! Austin! Philly! LA!–I’ve been on the look-out. From creeping ghost-monsters to blasé kitties giving viewers the bird to colorful blocks … More A Crime of Beauty
Here are daily art pieces from April 2018. I’m looking ahead; it’s the final stretch. I’m anticipating sunnier days ahead, dreaming of the beach, shutting my eyes, peering over the balcony of somewhere tropical. It won’t be nearly that sunny or beachy, but the thought’s getting me through the weeks. Missed deadlines. You know the … More April 2018 | Daily Art
Reading people. Like gleaning thin-slices. Like data points, which intuition pieces together to form a coherent, if oddly specific, understanding. A few looks, then a silent bombardment of insight. The feisty girl in engineering with the short brown hair? She’s done hard drugs. Comes up to me, strikes up a conversation, throws in her experience with … More Split
What I am trying not to face: a lurking purplish abyss. It sits in my chest. It rises at the prospect of change. Of goodbye’s, packed bags, new cities, separation, winters, fluorescent lights. Of time passing by too slowly. I see myself trudging through snow, finding pockets of peace, but also succumbing to the abyss. … More Purplish Abyss
The streets of D.C are wider, quieter, flatter, cleaner. D.C isn’t as frantic as New York. Or as gritty as Philly. Or as schizophrenic as Austin. There’s something immaculate about D.C., instead, something steely and modern and calm. From up here, I watch the slow scenes of the city unfold. Cars whizz by, colorful legos beneath … More Sensory Clash: Washington, D.C
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