Thought.is

When I saw a dying person for the first time I was six. My mother, father, sister and I were staying at my uncle’s lake house. My aunt was at the end of a battle with cancer. I didn’t know what that meant, but I could see her frailness, how something I couldn’t name was slowly diminishing, draining from her withered features.

My time kicking through the slush pile has taught me this: people are crazy and people are determined. I cannot imagine the amount of dedication and beautiful delusion it takes to write five hundred pages about a woman who must choose between a jazz musician and an eccentric LES artist.