On the day that he died Spencer Holligan once again thought of Virginia Woolf. He knew nothing of voices and auditory hallucinations, but he knew something of the certainty in the indomitable perpetuity of this sort of affliction, and when his mind traveled over that great expanse of time to commune with her his heart briefly swooned, soothed by the presence of a fellow citizen of the great nation of tragedy and exhaustion. The feeling of kinship took him in with its proprioceptive warmth, and with a quiet joy he stepped off of le Viaduc de Millau into the welcoming air.
Leaving the Bay Area behind.
Spending the summer in the Netherlands.
See you in August New York.
I know you would have me sit and bleed, and I’d gladly give my one remaining pint, but I am scared of leaving you alone and the last of what remains in me reeks of shame.
Anonymous said: Please come to NYU!!!! I feel like your voice as a writer would really fit in with the city.
I’ll be headed to New York this fall to be an MFA student in NYU’s Creative Writing Program.