hot child in the city

San Francisco,” my mother once said, “is the only city that demands you love it.” And she did.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

When you come to the edge of all that you know, you must believe one of two things: either there will be ground to stand on, or you will be given wings to fly.

We are a boatful of monsters and miracles, hoping that, somehow, we can survive a world in which all hands are against us. A world which, by all evidence, will end extremely soon. Yet, I posit we are in a universe which favors stories. A universe in which no story can ever truly end; in which there can be only continuances. If we are in such a universe, as I hope, then we may have a chance.