Writings

I lack the hands and skills of a visual artist, yet this canvas listens when my words paint what I cannot.

We never know how precious a moment truly is before it has become the past.

When you spend years looking up, you learn to notice the faces others overlook.

A short poem-like story inspired by Albert Camus’ absurdism.

What are your roots?

I suppose I am becoming a better performer, if only because I listen to the language I am trying to speak.

In the boundless abyss of space and the stretched, elongated fiber of time, our existence will ultimately and inevitably fail to manifest.

Inspired by Tim O’Brien’s They Things They Carried.

My window is a palette of colors.

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