No one would accuse me of being overemotional. In fact I’ve come in for the opposite critique. But if I were to isolate a telling trigger of tender thoughts, it would be the precise nothingness of experience, which is another way of saying the crushing completeness of it. These episodes unfold as false epiphanies, often when I am walking aimlessly outside, aware of trees articulated by leaves, the shadows thrown by anything not contained in larger shadow. All of it jumps out at me as a painted study of light and color. The landscape is a map of itself. My eyes get wet, as if hoping to blur the truth.

Furthermore — Human Parts — Medium