The Next Asana
Night makes for such delicious confession. Only the warm insomniacs inside, writing their muses into weary pages, and those few in the cold beyond. Who use the dark to play their own games deep past the witching hour. Inside is music, coffee, and self reflection. This three-year asana is drawing to its close. Existential tendons have already begun to draw into something different. Steeling for the years abroad. I’m headed overseas.
The Politics of Promises
It’s been hard to write of late, as some heavy fugue settles over my heart and holds otherwise dextrous fingers from their dancing. A creative humidity that permits a degree of heat, but kills any brighter spark as it tries to burn and leave. Partly, I think...
A Musical Promise on the Oxford Tube
It’s late and my eyes burn a little. My clock says its sometime after midnight. It feels like it’s always sometime past midnight, but there are journal articles to be read. Things to learn. It’s the third week into my Masters in Media Studies at...