On the Eve of Thirty

So a decade has come and gone, or nearly. The decade of making. I remember turning twenty and the odd panic, the surreal realness of adulthood settling in. That was worse, I think. I didn’t know then what I know now: that the panic was both an over and an under-reaction. It’s been far sweeter and far more terrifying than I imagined, and what I know now is I will say the same on the eve of forty.

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On a Rainy Thursday

It took until Thursday afternoon of a long week off—four days of phone-scrolling or binge-watching or wardrobe-dusting finally came to this: the rain and the falling leaves and the words.

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