Everything in the world resists ending up in a book.
Writing is the texture of their resistance.

Whenever I have an idea
reality puts me in my place.

Wherever it gets real,
ideally, I'll have a moment.

She believed in balance.

Whenever I found a way to make her life better,
she started looking for ways to destroy mine.

Where are beings?
In becoming.
When do they come?
Eventually.

What is being?
It is what it is.
Who is coming?
You know who.

I think fiction may be a scam.