Sometimes, too, as Eve was created from a rib of Adam, a woman would be born during my sleep from some misplacing of my thigh. Conceived from the pleasure I was on the point of enjoying, she it was, I imagined, who offered me that pleasure. My body, conscious that its own warmth was permeating hers, would strive to become one with her, and I would awake. The rest of humanity seemed remote in comparison with this women whose company I had left but a moment ago; my cheek as still warm from her kiss, my body ached beneath the weight of hers. If, as would sometimes happen, she had features of some woman whom I had known in waking hours, I would abandon myself altogether to this end: to find her agin, like people who set out on a journey to see with their eyes some city of their desire, and imagine that one can taste in reality what has charmed one’s fancy. And then, gradually, the memory of her would fade away, I had forgotten the girl of my dream.Marcel Proust

(Excerpt from  In Search of Lost Time: Vol 1)


I wanted to write about the pointless killing of an unarmed black kid by a police officer.

I wanted to write about the double standard that exists in America… that results in a Caucasian man being able to carry a gun into public place with no issue but a Black man picking up a toy gun in  a Walmart gets gunned down by cops.

I wanted to write about depression, and how it is a disease, not a state or frame of mind that one should just get over… regardless of how good their life seems from the outside.

I wanted to write about the value of life and humanity, but felt like it was an act futility.