PinnedPublished inArdorThe Guitar PlayerThe tune dances through tendrils of smog, drifts between shadows, and sighs over the streets with such beauty as pain permits.May 6, 20199May 6, 20199
PinnedPublished inArdorShow Me a True PlaceIt is not down in any map; true places never are. — Herman Melville, Moby-DickApr 11, 201911Apr 11, 201911
PinnedPublished inThe JunctionUpon a SunsetFast-falling dusk sweeps across the isle as the sun dips down the horizon, its last flare spilling over honey-tinged waters.Jan 10, 201918Jan 10, 201918
Published inArdorA Waltz of Wordsa short story about love, loss, and the power of booksNov 28, 20198Nov 28, 20198
Published inArdorThe Artist Who Never Used an EraserA friendship and betrayal that I will never forgetOct 28, 201912Oct 28, 201912
Published inArdorThe Rustling of AutumnMorning light pours over the patio in tendrils of honey whiskey. Dappled specks of sunlight adorn crimson leaves strewn over the lawn.Oct 18, 20196Oct 18, 20196
Published inArdorTidalPerhaps I will be moving on like the waves rushing towards the horizon,Oct 1, 20193Oct 1, 20193
Published inArdorNights Like TheseDusk falls and the city unfurls its secret self — a map unspooling under the wink of stars and streetlight.Sep 25, 20198Sep 25, 20198
