Long ago, I would’ve laughed at the idea of not killing someone as my first option, but here I am. It’s strange, the ease of falling so far from who I once was, but does it not take falling to learn how to stand?

To write is not just seeing the world through a kaleidoscope of possibilities, but a means to shift the tides of color that exist within it.

A violinist fiddled.With strings resined for winter.Summer's light splintered.

Moonless nights haunt me. They evoke remembrances of a carefree life when I dreamed without doubt to what my future could be. I yearn for a time when my mother’s tree swayed beneath the dusk like an amber sea, but the past is locked without a key. Never to return—only flee