Who is better off? The one who writes to revel in the voluptuousness of the life that surrounds them? Or the one who writes to escape the tediousness of that which awaits them outside? Whose flame will last longer?

“Life is Not a perpetual climb towards Greatness.For our family, ourselves, and …”

“Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love so…”

“The season was waning fastOur nights were growing cold at lastI took her to bed…”

“We rode the basement trains all night, speeding through the subterrains. I held…”