windy

Let no one claim I ever attempted consistency.

I don't know what my own voice sounds like anymore. I want to hear it in the differences in the voices I assume.

What people call their self is usually the first least transparent layer they come across.

I know the things I've written aren't my best works. I want them taken care of, they're a part of things I will hopefully write. If no one reads them how will I know they're done? Why did I put those unpublished pieces on the website? They're terrible introductions. But I want them to exist.

I do worry about not existing.

I'm starting to think of this journal as part of a never-ending interview with Life. In case I die before anyone gets to ask me the important questions.