It reminds me of writing and how I wake up week after week and get stuck on the blank page again and again. How I always despair that I have no more good ideas and, even if I did, not enough eloquence to convey said ideas. But I love it still. I love how writing brings everything to the surface, how it generates and absorbs my attention. How it

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Yet, I’m stubbornly protective over my personal writing. Precisely because I care about this squishier concept of identity, and identity creation through consuming and discarding information and killing your darlings and knitting together the ideas that, like brief stars, orbit far apart.

If art is the product of many many micro decisions, I care... See more