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The day before the world ended, the sky was a pale, faux pink. I drove to the neighborhood gas station and bought a blueberry muffin. Then, on second thought, a pack of cigarettes and a lottery ticket. That day, the fork latch on the back gate squeaked shrilly as I forced it open, the corroded metal scraping against my palm. As I walked al...

sometimes the showers of sound, the cursed drops of memory and even the rush of the wind will cooperate. the room’s soft vibrations tickle my eardrums and the illumination of the screen disturbs my eyes - are they red? - which beg the occasional close. the tenderness in my pointer and middle amuses me, only through pain can they be...

Ross might be another name for confusion. Or maybe, Ross was where I learned to accept confusion and uncertainty. Whether it was struggling to comprehend Dr. All’s tauntingly neat whiteboard work, or stumbling through a shaky proof of Bezout’s on Set 3, I had my fair share of pure, unfiltered confusion at Ross. But nothing - not even the (in)fi...

“Can you believe it?” We were lying on blankets that smelled of the stale air of the second-floor closet, draped across parched grass and silty soil. I shifted gently (the blanket was small) and looked at her through the corner of my eye. It was too dark to admire her dusty lashes and white-streaked hair, but her eyes were trained, trance-like,...

I was recently sent this poem by a friend of mine. It’s an astounding piece: The Physics of Love Mass is not proportional to volume. That girl as small as a violet, that girl who floats like a petal pulls me toward her with a force greater than the Earth’s mass. In an instant, like Newton’s apple, I dropped with a thump and rolled t...

At night, I like to roam the mansion of my memory. Let me try to describe it to you. The entrance is hard to miss, and walking through the door is as easy as losing your balance on a deceptively wide curb. I see the simple runner and stacks of shoes by the door, then my eyes drift up to the wall. Upon it hangs a certificate that I never remembe...

I guess that as time goes on, we leave parts of ourselves behind. Sometimes it’s like a limb being hacked off; splintered, torn, and bloody, and other times it’s a slow melt, a fire that is impossible to quench… and rarely, it’s an easing, world-shattering relief which snuffs out the pain of memory. I’m all chopped into pieces. I’m left in A...

your t’s are beautiful. that day, i watched you closely, as you carelessly but so beautifully curled their ends, and extended their dashes so slightly longer to the left. one must imagine them happy, birthed by your hand.