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Somewhere Between Footnotes and Sleepless Evenings (Maybe We'll Meet There Eventually)

I've never been particularly talented at introducing myself, so let's pretend this isn't one. Consider it a page carelessly left open for whoever happens to come across it.

The name isn't important just yet. If anything, I'd rather be remembered by a conversation before a label. One thing that does deserve mentioning, though—I'm comfortably past twenty, so if you're still underage, this is probably where we wave at each other from a distance.

People often mistake curiosity for stubbornness. I simply enjoy sitting with ideas longer than most. There's something satisfying about realizing a perspective isn't as fixed as it first appeared, and I don't mind admitting when a better argument changes my mind.

Any pronouns work just fine.

Most weekdays disappear between work, so don't be surprised if my replies arrive somewhere between "reasonably late" and "I promise I didn't forget." Life has a habit of borrowing my time before I get to spend it elsewhere.

I don't think much about labels, but I've always found more comfort in looking after people than waiting to be looked after. Remembering the smallest details, checking in for no particular reason, sending things that remind me of someone—it all comes rather naturally.

My interests are rarely permanent. One recommendation becomes five articles, those articles become a stack of books, and before I know it I'm spiraling through aesthetics, philosophy, literary criticism, political thought, or novels that seem determined to leave me with more questions than answers. Walter Pater, Ernst Jünger, Ernesto Sabato, forgotten essays, obscure journals—anything capable of making my brain work overtime somehow earns a place on my shelf.

I'd probably keep writing if introductions weren't the least interesting part of meeting someone.

The better chapters are usually written after the first conversation.