At The End Of The Block Where

The Beginning Of The End Can Feel A Lot Like The Middle When You Are Living In It.

Given The Brevity Of Our Time Here, It Does Seem Likely That Our Species, Too, Must Have At Best A Blinkered Understanding Of The Shape Of Things, The Import Of Certain Events And What Distinguishes "good" From "bad" Luck.

A Single Note, Held In An Amber Suspension Of Time, Like A Charcoal Drawing Of Icarus Falling. It Was Sad And Fierce All At Once, Alive With A Lonely Purity. It Went On And On, Until My Own Lungs Were Burning. “what Bird Are You Calling?” I Asked Finally, When I Couldn’t Stand It Any Longer. The Bird Man Stopped Whistling. He Grinned, So That I Could See All His Pebbly Teeth. “you.

I Hope That In My Thirties I Grow As A Writer, Push Into New Territory.

In Short Stories There's More Permission To Be Elliptical. You Can Have Image-logic, Or It's Almost Like A Poem In That You Can Come To A Lot Of Meanings Within A Short Space.