Someone once said that having ideals is no great feat;
the real feat is, in the name of truly great ideals, not to falsify minute details.
I can see the ghosts lurking behind the words as I write them—their eyes
fixed on the page, following the rasp of the worn nib of a fountain pen
that meticulously records all the petty grievances of a little man at odds
with a broken heart I’m not yet ready to give up on. Absolution, after all,
begins with oneself.