Oh, Atlas, Atlas...where to begin with all you just made me feel?

The hiss of tires on wet asphalt; solitary walkers bracing themselves from the chill; the implacable geology of personal histories--how mountains rise and crumble, as do lives, times--honored only by the archaeology of words; how observation and memory are, truly, the purest form of love; how, sometimes, the places we end up living in are not the ones we would have chosen ourselves, thus becoming slightly bitter denizens of places we feel no real belonging to; how belonging itself is a quest to conquer the oceanic abysses of identity; how the arranging and gluing of its shards is a life's work only the luckiest among us get to complete.

Noel Corpuz is right: there is an inherent musicality and rhythm to your writing. And then there is the economy of words, which is its own opulence of feeling.

Thank you, my dear Atlas. You have a new fan! :)