Last remnants of the green spring cling to newly installed metal fences. You’ve been spending too much time inside: scrolling endlessly and hoping someone you used to know will contact you just to spice things up.

Now, gaunt, and always coughing. Each hint of light turning his skin bright rash-red. As he sleeps the disease works its way through his veins. Pimples burst to the surface, purple blisters and boils explode like nebulae, dotting his arm with forbidden constellations.

There is no conclusion here, just a long unbroken thread of related thoughts hanging over my writing like an overworked metaphor.

I need space from him, she says, taking a step back and pinning her hand under her chin as she cranes her neck up to examine the painting.

Why does anyone start a fire?

Zach and I went to New York last week, spending about two and a half days there. It was perfect timing: just after some rain and early enough in the summer that the sun was shining but the temperature wasn’t unbearable.

Sunflowers catch the morning light as our little dog shakes himself from underneath the duvet, waking to the sound of my alarm, ready to feast.

Kaleb, Hellenistic on the starting block: marbled muscle ready to explode.