as heat, trembling with the fever of their uncertainty. Each letter is a mirage that flickers on the horizon of your attention, and every sentence is a shimmer that promises, then withholds, consolation. You have always suspected that language is less a bridge than a hallucination, and as you read, you watch the letters pulse…

The hardest sentence I ever wrote was the one I wrote before I knew I was writing. The coffee cooling on the desk, the cursor blinking at the margin, the irritable shuffle of pages that refuse to hold a line. You sense the outline of something, and in every gesture you make, every tap of…

Before it had a name, before it had a story, before gravity made up its mind, there was only waiting, and then, without ceremony or permission, a single drop let go. Beginning: You know those strange moments when you’re caught between what’s already happened and what might come? I am sitting by the window, watching…

 The sentence exists before it is written, somewhere, pressing toward form…  The world forgets what it finds inconvenient. This has been observed. A thing is present, then it is absent, and the space it occupied closes over without a mark. The knowledge of this does not make the writing easier or harder. Eventually, it sits…

after years of sharing my observations and notes on life, I have sat down and compiled a novella: Whispers of the Witness This isn’t prose; it’s void song.  It doesn’t tell a story; it unravels the illusion that you are separate from it.  It’s the sacred hum before the first word was ever spoken, this…

“Before I wrote the first word, words had already written me.” A new e-book appeared on the web; I write because I am, but see that“ I“ is an illusion. Before language, before the first thought thought itself, here, something is already present; the book, the writer, and the reader are all later inventions… Currently…