though i have tried, no medium has ever consistently served me as well as my writing has. any attempt to sit down and compose music has, with few exceptions, ended in despair. i need not mention my inability to draw or paint. putting words on to paper seems to be the only suitable manner by which i can explain my emotions—and, i might add, it brings with it an inextricable sense of connection to my past and to other writers i’ve admired which i haven’t been able to find any other way. echoes of my betters.
no amount of cropping or application of the right filter can communicate as exquisitely the feeling of a commute into the city every single morning—where, underground, it’s always dark—as the use of no less than two hundred words.