Eight years ago, I wrote a story about my life. A story of a kid trying to find his place in the world; trying to figure how he could remain true to who he was, and not be vanquished by the everpresent forces of sociali…

And so it seems, here am I. Living a life that I already regret as I live it. What sense of hope or satisfaction could be derived from a life story like that? A long, sordid train of melancholy whimsy, of existent…

Beauty. That's really what it comes down to. An ability to appreciate the wonder and splendor, the rich and lavish, the guttural and visceral, the base and the vernacular, the quaint and the frenzied. Ability to love…