Sun is up and the day goes right for me I'm moving up in a way that's rightfully Ringing out yeah, your day calls out to me I'm moving up, can't contain the light I see All around me the air sings infinity Chin is up and the scene is on to me Coffee cup and I'm sailing out to sea I'm moving up in a way that seems to be This is not a sob story. It's record keeping, I guess. Enough people had said, “You're a writer, why not write about it?” In most ways, I'd set out to

***Please be advised that the following post may contain descriptions of self-harm that may upset certain readers.*** On my ferry ride home, I’m lulled into sleepiness by the boat’s rocking over choppy waves. Thoughtlessly, I’ve smeared ink down the page of my book. A blurry line of indigo that extended from an underline I’d marked off in the first several pages of Beauvoir’s Ethics of Ambiguity. “It is in the knowledge of the genuine conditions of our life,” the wobbly unde