Essays and stories on the strange business of being human.
I write to people who think too much, and feel even more.
Just language as a meeting place.
A loggia, a fur, a mole, cakes we will never have. Riding on twigs. How easy it is not to love the poet. Something overheard at dinner, including the silence.
Small things, until they aren’t.
If that’s your kind of conversation, come closer.
Choose your language, and read.
