Reading this is a bit like finding a doorway to someone’s head, and stepping deep into a tangle of thoughts and memories.

Once your eyes adjust to the non-light, you start to look around, and you find never-ending rooms with drawers and shelves, frameless photographs on walls, oceans, excavations, the gravity of a falling star. Maybe you’ll get lost in one of them. Maybe it’s better that way.

Or maybe at some point you’ll come across a large dumbwaiter waiting to the left of a long hallway, its hungry, half-open mouth looming quietly like a leviathan. Maybe you’ll find the courage to get in, if only to see where it transports you, and where it opens up.

If you find me on the other side, I’ll say “Where have you been?”

And if you don’t—well then.


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I'm extruding thoughts, imprinting time, curating memory.