welcome to the labyrinth of a stray consciousness, or lack thereof, in which all answers are obvious and obscured. i, nobody, will be your guide; as the architect of this prison, i am the best suited for this job. this does not mean we will not get lost. indeed, expect frequent excursions to unforseen, yet in hindsight predictable, territory. what you must know is that i oscillate between making sense of this labyrinth and forsaking it. i have been interested in everything and nothing, and will continue to be so for the forseeable future. that being said, writing---and its supportive activities---continue to be the backbone of all i do.
most of this website is contained within my diaries. most of what i write in them is true, except for the parts that i made up. i bake and cook, the latter for a living, and occasionally write about it. i enjoy wandering and writing about wandering. i can be reached via still-defenestrating-squirrels [at] proton [dot] me. you may also type words onto my guestbook.
scroll for old updates.
Who has never killed an hour? Not casually or without thought, but carefully: a premeditated murder of minutes. The violence comes from a combination of giving up, not caring, and a resignation that getting past it is all you can hope to accomplish. So you kill the hour. You do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. If you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. And when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body. The only clue might be the shadows beneath your eyes or a terribly thin line near the corner of your mouth indicating something has been suffered, that in the privacy of your life you have lost something and the loss is too empty to share.
from house of leaves, by mark z. danielewski.