Fractured nonfiction about memory, intimacy, and the lives we almost lived.
I write about the afterlife of intimacy - the quiet ways a life breaks, carries, and reforms across cities. New York, Sydney, and the versions of a self that don’t fully leave.
Some nights the fog reaches me before the memory does. New York swallowed me; Sydney softened me. This is the story of the body I lost, the one I rebuilt, and the ghosts that still follow.
Ridgewood at 3:14am was its own kind of truth. Empty platforms, cold air, and a version of me who kept walking through the dark because she didn’t know how to stop. This is the memory that still flickers.
Wazza moves through the house like someone who’s lived a hundred lives and learned to carry them gently. This is a small portrait of the man who became family in the quietest, most ordinary moments.
Back then the wine was cheap and the nights were soft. Wazza, Lee, the quiet rituals we fell into without trying. These were the early wine days. Small, ordinary moments that ended up feeling like home.
Selected nonfiction and essays
Fragments, late-night notes, and the stories beneath the stories.
