I'm interested in memory because it's a filter through which we see our lives, and because it's foggy and obscure, the opportunities for self-deception are there. In the end, as a writer, I'm more interested in what people tell themselves happened rather than what actually happened.

Kauzo Ishiguro

Tryna remember her name, passenger seat, I might just give her the key

Thought I was done with drugs, now you want somethin' from me

Flawless Lucki, how much more with tax? But I thought love was free

Skippin' town, karma on my back, why she stalkin' me

Foxy Brown, powerful as dope, she write my song for me

"When you are working with creative people, you don't tell them what to do. You invite them to the party." -Frances Ford Coppola

Sometimes it's not the people who change, it's the mask that falls off.

— Haruki Murakami

a myth is told at the end

of autumn when you are naked
with all the lights off & all you remember

is the voice of someone
you’ve forgotten: someone you said

you loved: so you stand here in the dark until
that song of flesh drowns your bones: & stays

like any starved god would

— Michael Wasson, from "Testament #90," Swallowed Light

Did you ever feel colored-in when a boy found you with his mouth? What if the
body, at its best, is only a longing for body? The blood racing to the heart
only to be sent back out, filling the routes, the once empty channels, the
miles it takes to take us toward each other. Why did I feel more myself
while reaching for him, my hand midair, than I did having touched him?