beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.

I wonder, sometimes, what anyone is supposed to get from reading this blog. I forget, sometimes, that I'm writing this for an audience, and then I wonder why an audience would come back here at all. But, dear reader, if you exist, these days are big and filled with sky and waiting for the fireflies and harboring those Big Life Decisions in my stomach. It is always now, when the chopsticks are discarded, All the Pretty Horses is half read, barely thought out short story ideas litter a floor cold with night, that I revert to the way I've always been: driving past my exit, dreaming of somewhere lonely with a windowsill. I've spent too much time on this coast, and now? The if-not-now-when's are hard to swallow, the beer less so.