the blog
the burden of being awake (4)
The dusty plain gradually gave way to softer soils. What had been a dead, stale flatness became a salty tang that tangled hair and provoked nostrils. A cool breeze came in erratic gusts, gathering force at once before slipping into sudden silence, echoing the sculptor’s own heartbeat…
the burden of being asleep (3)
Dawn broke over a landscape devoid of warmth or welcome. The sculptor and companion emerged from those last fringes of foreboding forest and stood on the edge of a barren plain…
shadows and repressed truths (2)
The storm had just passed, having shattered the world into a million confused pieces. It took with it the blue sky, coloring the heavens a burgundy red and then a pitch black…
the flawed self-narrative (1)
In his empty, uninspired prison cell—a cramped space where an unwelcome cold clashed with the stifling heat outside—the sculptor sat cross-legged…