On Peter Beagle’s The Last Unicorn, and what it teaches about beauty, possession, fidelity, and the cost of becoming real.

On why the sharpest, safest-seeming stance toward the world is also the one most likely to hollow it out.

The island as a body, read for its contents.

A bluff above a marsh in Nanaimo, and a question that is already a kind of taking.

Not remembered. Recycled.

Whose bluff, whose marsh, whose watershed. A question set down for the length of an afternoon.

Sometimes the best way to find yourself is to get thoroughly lost.

Inspired by Camus and countless kilometers of trail.