As if rot and verdure weren’t enough, I then became the mythical man moth, and I fluttered around, that summer, not moon, but incandescent after incandescent, each honey-colored orb in the warm night, each thrumming with […]
“Act like you own the place.” Obscure fatherly advice, one more scrap sewn into the patchwork man, sewn into it, so it’s hanging together pretty well now. Shambling so it might seem like strutting.