My director.

A crusty old man was he, with watery eyes rubbed red, and the scratchy white stubble of a beard. He had the altogether appearance that he had crackled out of a dried ocean bed, emerging from beneath shallow sand that stuck to his oily pores. His face, crevices and sun-bleached, splintered like drift wood. His mind was lost at sea.

Blowing a Kiss

It has been a while since I've written, and yet, it feels the same. Much like a worn glove remembers the contours of your hand and the ridges of your bones. I drove home from Grand Rapids tonight around midnight, and though it's been a stretch of two years since I was a commuter student, my body remembered the stretch of road with its every blinking light and curve. The night air felt soft on my face with the windows rolled down and the radio off. I like to drive in silence in the dark and to feel the glide of the tires over smooth pavement. The road home fit my senses like a glove, enveloping my hypnotized memory in nostalgia for the incipience of college, causing me to stretch my heart strings across the random spectrum of my Aquinas years. Ah, my youth! How it flits into the past...into the future...Let us--like Chekhov--dream of what life will be like in 200--300 years from now! I hope the night air is still soft and dreams, still fickle.