Literary Bohemian

The book we hold in our hands today has traveled far to find us—from inspiration to execution, to printing and distribution. Its secret desire: to whisk us effortlessly to Elsewhere.

Vague hints of spring ripple the air, and pigeons coo coyly on the sill as they draw up their Valentine greetings. We get them all year long.

I once knew only travel, not arrival. I knew I could flee, but I could not picture myself five weeks older, three flights up a crooked staircase.