Often there is a glaring gap between who we feel we are and who we want to be.
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Writing about Camp is the least Camp thing we can do. But for your edification, we’ll dip our toes into the controversial.
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Now, as I am one year and seven months from thirty, I understand the infinity of growing old. I imagine myself as recycled clay. Formed into this year, grabbed by another and shaped into that one—but where is the kiln? Where is the sun that dries the grapes?
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I didn’t come here for love, so if I choose to stay here, it has to be for more than love itself.
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