the way the light hits the old brick outside my kitchen window… late in Richmond always felt like a secret, the kind you weren't supposed to tell and asking what it was afraid of… the inner critic, i mean. hadn't ever occurred to me that it might BE afraid, just… mean. it’s like asking the bully what’s making him act like that isn’t it… and then seeing a scared kid. and then feeling sorry for it? is that allowed? feeling… tenderness for the thing that keeps me small… feels like i’m betraying myself. and what if that’s the ONLY way out.