The Weather Outside is Frightful
Thick, globby specks of white dotted the sky, like Impressionist brushstrokes viewed too close up.
Thick, globby specks of white dotted the sky, like Impressionist brushstrokes viewed too close up.
One hit to the torso killed you dead. Three hits to the same limb chopped it off. Head shots were off-limits by parental decree, but if they happened on accident you better recover quick before Calvin jabbed you in belly with a two-handed sword.
For months, I have been waiting for news about my dream opportunity. I have held back from any long-term commitments for the sake of a possibility. I have been expectantly been waiting for news—any news.
“It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are,” Dumbledore says, “far more than our abilities.”
Enneagram 3, The Achiever: Adaptable, Excelling, Driven, and Image-Conscious.
Matt Cambridge, nice to meet you.
May you warm your body under thick blankets, your hands by radiators, your feet in old slippers.
I remind myself that no one is watching me, probably. Nobody is passing judgement on Christmas Eve.
I’ve made a list of twenty authors—twelve who wrote after 1900 and eight from the centuries before—whose work I’m going to limit myself to.
I recently tried to explain heartbreak to someone who has never had their heart broken. It didn’t go well.
Sadness is that way: temporal. Each encounter comes with a demand singular to the day of its arrival: here is a powerful feeling, attend to it, reconcile its nature with yours.