My writing has recently become intensely personal, and as such it has become exceedingly sparse. The stories I tell are becoming shorter and shorter, as I realize that long stories are always ongoing and can often be divided into smaller, more manageable stories. I used to be able to tell other people's stories well, because I did not know them well. Now that I am close with fewer people (and those that I am close with, I know considerably more personally), telling their stories becomes increasingly more difficult. I simply cannot do them justice. This is, alas, a note on the death of a storyteller.

As the Gina series draws to an end, I found comfort beginning the Hospital Flowers series. Writing has been an immense help with understanding recent events, and revealing the resulting poems sequentially has given me motivation to continue doing so. Dedicated to Gina.

Please.