Slowly, Painstakingly, Like Ants, Men

Jemu Watched His Father Disappear. He Didn't Throw The Coconut And He Didn't Cry. Never Again Would He Know Love For Another Human Being That Wasn't Adulterated By Another, Contradictory Emotion.

All Day, The Colors Had Been Those Of Dusk, Mist Moving Like A Water Creature Across The Great Flanks Of Mountains Possessed Of Ocean Shadows And Depths.

She'd Have To Propel Herself Into The Future By Whatever Means Possible Or She'd Be Trapped Forever In A Place Whose Times Had Already Passed.

This Way Of Leaving Your Family For Work Had Condemned Them Over Several Generations To Have Their Hearts Always In Other Places, Their Minds Thinking About People Elsewhere; They Could Never Be In A Single Existence At One Time. How Wonderful It Was Going To Be To Have Things Otherwise.

Writing, For Me, Means Humility. It’s A Process That Involves Fear And Doubt, Especially If You’re Writing Honestly.