Ruminations of a Working Man, Pt. X: Member of Everything

Last night, I hung up the coat that shielded me high on the Cliffs of Moher in the closet that I seldom open, the hinges groaning in protest. The salt from the ocean spray, still clinging to the thick sleeves, left my fingers sticky and longing to return. A gentle yet abrasive reminder that, for once, I did it. I was a member of everything, and my eyes saw the vibrant colors of everything. My ears were buffeted with the pulse of everything, and its pulse became my pulse.

Finding the Garden

I step inside... It is absolutely frigid. It seems as if the walls know too, clad in their stoic gray-blue semblance. I dare not run - it could spell disaster for myself and all of the other apparitions locked in here with me. Yet mayhaps the only way to know for sure, the only way to capture... Continue Reading →

Ruminations of a Working Man, Pt. V

Another cup... Another significantly poor cup of black coffee. No sense in throwing sugar on top of a pile of feces and pretending it's a biscuit, eh? No sense in going to work and pretending it's a playground, either. Honestly, that's the first time I've compared work to poop, though I can say with some certainty it... Continue Reading →

Ruminations of a Working Man, Pt. III

In an odd place... Somewhere far, far away from home. ... Or is it home, after all? Embittered by all that surrounds me day after day, anywhere seems like home. Mayhaps it's simply a sign that I've been home too long. The monotonous 30-minute drive to and from work Monday through Friday, and the eight... Continue Reading →

Ruminations of a Working Man, Pt. II

I walk through these bleak, gray-infested corridors, with naught but the monotonous tapping of fingers slowly deteriorating keyboards, degrading one keystroke at a time. Whitewashed walls and ceilings, the typical carpet not good enough for hotel floors, but not yet tattered enough to be thrown into a trash can; it all just screams for release.... Continue Reading →

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Make Me Brave

A powerful tool. Why does it seem we're all, carelessly, pointing guns at each other like fools.

Conor Walsh Music

Minimalist piano and electro acoustic composer

Rivers and Roads

She is clothed in dad jokes and mustard yellow

Mistakes & Adventures

What I've always wanted