It is a bit like a curse. That insatiable itch. That oh, so human desire to know the future before the seeming snail’s pace in which we find ourselves encountering it.
Wednesday Evening Post: 8.17.22
Endings. Beginnings. Been on my mind, though I suppose the truth is in all the living in the between.
Friday Evening Post: 8.12.22
There is to be a show. I am to put one on. Less than a week to go. And here I am, interrupting my own preparation.
Monday Evening Post: 8.8.22
I wonder. At what point does memory become history? And, at what point is desire too corrupted by selfishness so that nothing pure is left remaining?