Dirty Ivory

As I run┬áthe wet paper towel back and forth,┬áthin lines of dust — dark worms of motes and lint — twine into an abstract portrait of neglect. By the time I get to Middle C, I have refolded the paper three times, burying the filth, wrapping my fingers in new inches of pristine fiber. After… Continue reading Dirty Ivory

In a Funk

“How can it smell so bad? We just showered you yesterday!” As I stand in the kitchen sniffing my fingertips, Byron is incredulous. Bruno Mars is still backstage polishing his loafers, yet there is some serious funk going on. I press my fingertips to my nose, and it is a testament to my steel stomach… Continue reading In a Funk