A delightful collage of me walking through London three years ago.
The ambiguity forces us to supply our own nightmares.
The bodhisattva was so overwhelmed by the suffering in the universe that the deity’s head split into eleven pieces.
Eleven years sober and another year older.
Why does the wind leave us feeling so exhausted and harassed?
After all these years, how well do I know her taste? How well does she know mine?
I've been stuck on the last 20% of a story I'm writing about a haunted frequency, so I went to the museum to shake some ideas loose.
A floppy-eared dog gnawed a bone while a clown smiled above the bed.
I still find myself stopping in the street, stunned by how low the clouds hang on this island.
Maybe it's limbic and hardwired, this desire to see the divine rather than hear or touch.
There are over a thousand responses from visitors now, far more than we anticipated at this point.
Saturday afternoon at the museum. 25% capacity, masks, and decals on the floor reminded us to keep our distance.
Sometimes I find comfort in a two-thousand-year-old myth about a Chinese emperor.
