everyday madness
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There is a strange kind of silence that only writers hear. It doesn’t sound like silence at all. It sounds like an empty room where people were laughing five minutes ago. I never thought I would run out of things to say. Writers joke about writer’s block the way fishermen joke about rain. It exists.…
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Alice was walking home when she passed the café. Home wasn’t really home yet. It was just the place she returned to when the city ran out of streets to wander. She had been drifting through the upside-down parts of town for weeks now, the places where storefronts stayed half-lit and conversations felt unfinished. She…
