From a Long Sentence
A man walks under the weight of what he has done and there is no setting it down. One night can break a life in two and leave both halves walking. I know this. I carry my own choices on my back, a ruck that never lightens. When night comes down and the noise burns off, the reckoning holds the corner of the room. The past drags up a chair and sits.
For now there is only this small place at the edge of the road, a porch light left on in the dark. If someone needs the man who bears that weight, this is where to knock.
The Distance Between Gates
Born of testimony, memory, and fifteen years inside, this book comes from rooms that have not forgotten, where glass stands between voices, cells hold for count, and a yard path lies beaten flat by the same few men.
For the sake of the living, names, timelines, and particulars have been altered. For the sake of the dead and the harmed, the cost and its weight have been set down in truth.
When the reckoning is bound between covers, you’ll find it here.
Contact
If you have business with the man who wrote these words, leave it here. If you want word when the book is loose in the world, say so in your note.