We’re all struggling to plot our course back to that Rousseauian état de nature, battling modernity along the way with whatever sticks and rocks we find lying about. Writing is one way to make sense of the journey, one way to make sense of ourselves. In the face of the illusive quest for perfection, comprehension, or transcendence— whether metaphysical, philosophical, or entirely concrete— we all trudge on: hands full of coffee, heads full of woes, and shoes full of cold feet.
I write about it, mostly because it helps me sleep.
All photographs and writing are my own unless otherwise noted.