Welcome to The Letter. Today's letter was written on a cold Saturday morning in my deep-purple office while the lovely man I married is off parenting…
"To move forward, end the debt."
If Kurt Vonnegut felt like an armless, legless man writing with a crayon in his mouth, where does that leave the rest of us?
The writer fights herself, and wins.
It took with it everything I had except an ability to listen to my heart.
A portrait of the artist in recovery.
Small things count.
It’s about unwrapping the threads holding down what you imagined was your skin, and realising that those threads are not skin but the teachings that…
Critics are as critics do.
Enter, the mutants.
'This -ness knows that the abyss is a temporary illusion. '
'Barely a zygote, more a coming together of stardust and attention'.