I remember the strange sense of power I felt the first time someone called me a writer. And the guilt I felt when I let it slip away, citing work, the pursuit of an MBA and my general ineptitude for the lifestyle of starving artist musing madly in an ill-lit corner of a coffee shop. I write far too irregularly to be considered a writer, but what I lack in frequency I hope to make up for in honest, simple and questioning notes, essays and prose about the world and our place in it.


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