That’s perhaps the real issue with liminal spaces. They’re not safe. Anything can happen there. Demons and angels dance, memories surface, words flow together into a torrent of poetry that one has only to capture to… And there it is again. It can’t be captured. My waking self has nothing in common with my liminal falling-asleep self. One of them may well be a better writer, but the other is a writer who actually gets things written.Read More
“It’s not,” said the voice, “that I was having an affair. I’ve actually never cheated on my wife. That must make me reasonably unique, anyway.”
“Marcel,” I said.
“Of course, madame, who else?” He moved and the light moved with him.
I drew my knees up to my chest and encircled them with my arms. It didn’t make me feel any less vulnerable. “Why?” I asked flatly.Read More
What I’m suggesting, though, is that hope, the hope that gets us out of bed in the mornings and allows us to face another barrage of overwhelming pain and negativity, that hope has to lie elsewhere. And I think that where it lies is… well, here. Now.Read More