Often there is a glaring gap between who we feel we are and who we want to be.

Writing about Camp is the least Camp thing we can do. But for your edification, we’ll dip our toes into the controversial.

Now, as I am one year and seven months from thirty, I understand the infinity of growing old. I imagine myself as recycled clay. Formed into this year, grabbed by another and shaped into that one—but where is the kiln? Where is the sun that dries the grapes?

I didn’t come here for love, so if I choose to stay here, it has to be for more than love itself.