What If
day four hundred and twenty two we remain below the surface in the caves and catacombs of a life that should have been ours above us roam the foul creatures that hunt the living, eat the dead stalk the grand mansions of what once stood as the pinnacle of wealth weeds spring among the rows of grapes choking their growth, hiding the sun so the fruit is stunted and sparse we gather the little that’s there what if today were different— no fever dreams of green pastures but
Why Write?
For the fun of it. For the art, yes, and the stacking of words. For the melody and rhythm of a sentence, echoed by another. Why not for fun? After the final page, Real Life takes you back—he always does—he’s always happy for company in his odorous cinderblock cell, until we chisel another way out. Perhaps it’s better to say I understand my everyday struggles when I see them in a story. It’s one thing to hear about redemption, another to see it played out among Dmitri, Ivan, a
