There is a restaurant on a cold night.
Through the window you can see everything clearly. The warmth of the light. The easy laughter. The way people lean toward each other when something interesting is said. The belonging that is so natural to everyone inside that none of them think to notice it or name it or feel grateful for it.
You have been standing at this window your entire life.
This is a publication for the people at the window. The ones who see clearly and are rarely seen. Who carry more interior life than the world around them knows what to do with. Who have learned, over a long time, that the translation required to move through ordinary life costs something that never quite gets replenished.
I write because the interior has to go somewhere. Because this life does not make sense if I don’t.
Because somewhere, there is a reader who will pick this up and think — someone finally said the thing I didn’t have words for.
If that is you, you are not alone out here.
