i met a man named sheriff last april. he unfolded so slowly, like a lily, that i lost track of his face. i found parts of him all winter in the most unusual places: foot on my thigh, wrist on my forehead, thumb in my beltloop.

what he lacked in words he made up for in presence – i once followed a thread of glow all the way to his studio, and you could have sworn, oh yes, you could have just SWORN that someone had smudged out the rest of the world in black magic marker the whole way there.