Preface

Some things stay with us without asking to be remembered. A room in the late afternoon. A sentence left unfinished. The sound of someone washing a cup in the next room.

This is a small place for those things. These pages do not need to arrive anywhere. Read them in order, or return to a page that feels familiar. There is time.

I’m not sure what I’m writing. A manifesto? A biography? Was it a suicide note?

I haven’t decided.