Is it even possible to explain why you like something? And I don’t mean explaining why it’s cool, but why, over everything else people love in this world, you love what you do.
I came to the city to write. I hoped to find a bustling literary community to feed my spirit and offer me some kind of identity in a dizzying mass of humanity.
Sometimes I look at my computer screen, at all of the words that I’ve written and all of those that have yet to show themselves to me, and I have the sense to think that I’m looking into a cracked mirror that I don’t quite comprehend.
"maybe because she was raised poor, / maybe because for the first decade of her life / mao ripped away her / expression, her roses, identity– / brainwashed, is the word she uses now, but // my mother keeps everything"