I write about dreams, and ghosts out of my bones. Not to get rid of them, but to better hold them in front of me, warm in the palms of my hands. I write about the confusion between love and outrage, and outrage and laughter.

I write so these ghosty-bones of mine will get up on these legs of theirs and dance. I write to syphon moments of love and grief into a thing that is ultimately meant to become a memory on closing night, but hopefully it’s somememory. I write to perpetuate memory so that there is always something to hold onto. I sit with pen and paper and let it move like a planchette on a ouija board. “Here’s my body, little ghosties, have at it.”