I’m looking back over old stuff to post again, remembering inspiring moments, and struggling to remember others. The genesis of a thought, the spark of an idea, so often gets jumbled with the day to day. It’s been a busy year, and certain things feel like I wrote them two years ago. The date stamp on the pieces shows other wise. Older pieces often feel like they were written by someone else entirely, a version of myself that’s been all but washed away eroded by the accumulated storms of living, old skin scrubbed away and out to sea.