A philosophical contemplation about the meaning of writing, non-duality, and why we need writers especially in times of self-isolation.
Does the book even stand a chance nowadays against Netflix, YouTube and Co? This post argues that reading still has a trick up its sleeve.
Teardrops Made of ink, Born from an ocean, Are falling To the ground, Covered in sheets Of white paper. Each sheet Catches a different drop, Witnesses That are yet Too fragile To drown you, Too solid To be forgotten, Waves that are Not strong enough To reach the … Continue reading Fragments
An old pub. A writer. A glass of whisky. Thoughts.