I write to see myself write, to hear myself express ideas that do not materialize in real life around me. That I want to write less when I end up having satisfying conversations confirms to me that there is an element of justification, a confessional theme in my reason to write. Maybe that is why... Continue Reading →

On Art, Artists and Consumers

Most pieces of art that intimidate me, I find eventually, are all incredibly personal creations. Maybe that is why, when consuming them, I feel a genuine sense of trepidation. It has a quality of the unseen. As if it were conceived in the purity of a human mind without validation from anyone else. Very few people... Continue Reading →

Oct 1st 2017, Brooklyn

Help me out here, will you? Why write? I mean, why write? What I write I want to read. What I want to read I want to experience in some form and what I don't experience leaves me screaming for it self-pityingly. Admonitions of "but you can't have it all" or "fucking nonsense, grow up" make me... Continue Reading →

Words –

Who are we kidding? Most writing is cringe-worthy at some level. It is verbal diarrhea. Sometimes I want words to have lives of their own. They should say "fuck you floozie, I am my own being. You wrote me but that doesn't give you any ownership over me" and strut away. Then we would think twice before penning... Continue Reading →

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my love affair with Russian literature

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Nicole Higginbotham-Hogue

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Blessed with a Star on the Forehead

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