If the man who tells you that he writes, paints, sculptures, or sings for his own amusement, gives his work to the public, he lies;
Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life
listening to the silence of the wise man
in the agora trying to convince me that
i write to leave behind a shadow of my
spirit, something that may survive me,
i rather trust the old sage from samos.
and so i write for that ounce of glory
that may amuse me a little in the days
i have left without the comforting
warmth of someone else’s arms.
hidden pilcrow 