One week ago, I would have told you I was at the end of the line. That I had failed at the simple task assigned me and nothing lay on the other side of that. But then some old friends flew from their coast to mine to see me, and we got in my truck and drove. We drove through forests, lush and choked with green. Over mountains, noble and craggy and inlaid with snow. Across deserts with sweeping red rock hollowed by the wind and a lazy shallow river to float in. Through tiny t

A man in a park somewhere in Olympia, narrow and tall and holding his small black dog on a leash in the shade. His skin is thin and crinkled like paper and when we get close I see a cigarette folded delicately between two of his fingers, almost down to the filter. He doesn't look as we walk past, but turns his head slightly, and I wonder if his face is curved in like a crescent moon.

I’m so tired by the time I make it to the notebook section, having hunted for hours in the rainbow rooms of Powell’s books in that time-warped daze only books and their stores induce, running on drip coffee and a dry frosted scone. I had already developed a whole stack of stories, including a hardcover of I’ll Give You the Sun, a copy of the book that first introduced me to the idea of cutting, and a cheesy romance snagged sheepishly from the Booktok section. I cradle them to