The Distance
Between Gates
There is the man it happened to.
There is the man who survived it.
Between them, a life.
Nothing disappears. It only changes hands.
Not yet for sale
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What the Days Are Made Of
Confinement, one vignette at a time. It arrives as objects: a property card, a footlocker, a stapler that becomes the best thing in a room.
There is accumulation: the way a place gets into a person by repetition, the way a routine becomes a personality, the way competence bought at a cost keeps getting used long after the cost stops being visible.
At its center, a survival self: practiced, procedural, fluent in a currency that circulates in one place only. And the man who has to decide whether he gets to keep it.
A debut. Meant to be read straight through or in pieces, letting the weight collect.
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