Mr. W, good morning. *HELLO NIGHT* carries a quiet ache that lingers. The way you held space for Mr. Lauren, for the child with the dead phone, for the bodies and the coins in the fire... it’s all rendered with a kind of brutal tenderness. You write like someone who refuses to forget, even when forgetting might be easier. That refusal is its own kind of light.
Mr. W, good morning. *HELLO NIGHT* carries a quiet ache that lingers. The way you held space for Mr. Lauren, for the child with the dead phone, for the bodies and the coins in the fire... it’s all rendered with a kind of brutal tenderness. You write like someone who refuses to forget, even when forgetting might be easier. That refusal is its own kind of light.
This guy cracks me up
A pleasure.