Home

Hello dear future. I started to give life to my story and its characters as some form of refuge for myself. I did what I had to do. It was somewhat instinct and what I write now might be the exegesis of that, years after contemplation: I saw no way for myself to be able to connect to others. I was torn apart, and no one seemed to be interested in dirty rags. I was too much work. Or would have been. And I agree. I was alone and it was either working on myself or getting rid of me and – yes – it was a lot of work. Only some time later did I start to realise that I was giving my problems to said characters. And because, as I assumed, no one would be interested to read a story where problems just disappear with a flick of the finger, I had to start thinking about solutions. Stringent solutions. Nowadays I consider my intention refined. I write to offer others hope. Good, if they just have fun. That’s, of course, fine as well. I may be (or might have been, when you read this) a fool to

I never expected the expected when life goes down like the checklist in your father’s hand, you endure it. you endure it. even when the classes you take gut punch your curiosity. or the joy you force down your throat at graduation, underwhelms. or the years of nine to five, create caverns of despair in your ribcage. even then, you endure it. you endure it. because you live for seconds. because you live for the universe within. because you know how to build galaxies with your hands. these very hands that have set you free, again and again. and you find your peace. so you endure it. you endure it. and then you slip and lay in the place between your mother’s hands and waterfalls catch in her lap. and you endure it. you endure it. because you’ve never truly been safe except in blood that calls you. and you’ve never truly been home in blood that calls you. but you know where to look. you know where to look. and you find them. some, caught in the break of light on concrete between 39th and