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178 pages, Kindle Edition
Published August 25, 2020
”Zach wiped his bloodshot eyes and went over to the door, put his hand on the knob. He wanted to see her, give her a hug, say he loved her, but his eyes fluttered as his head grew lighter, and all those thoughts burst apart in chalk explosions. He felt each one dissolve like a pill under his tongue.”
Back when I played guitar in a band, we’d often talk about “perfect imperfection” in the records we all loved. It was the slightly out-of-tune guitar, the ragged voice that couldn’t quite hit the high note—all these things that, together, created something raw and real. I think there’s purity in letting something exist within the context it was created. Not that something shouldn’t be edited, or made better, but not at the cost of draining all the blood out of the work in order to make it more “perfect.”
Your own pain was all you ever saw, and it became so big that it made the world.