Writer exploring intimacy, memory, and the quiet ruptures that shape us.
I write about memory, quiet moments, the people we carry, and the places that we carry.
My work moves between Sydney and New York; between the lives I’ve lived and the ones I’ve left behind.
Ridgewood at 3:14am was its own kind of truth. Empty platforms, cold air, and a version of me who kept walking through the dark because she didn’t know how to stop. This is the memory that still flickers.
Wazza moves through the house like someone who’s lived a hundred lives and learned to carry them gently. This is a small portrait of the man who became family in the quietest, most ordinary moments.
Back then the wine was cheap and the nights were soft. Wazza, Lee, the quiet rituals we fell into without trying. These were the early wine days. Small, ordinary moments that ended up feeling like home.
Some nights return without warning. The memories, the cities, the versions of me that still rise after dark. A fragment about the hours that blur truth, longing, and the things I still can’t name out loud.
Selected nonfiction and essays
Fragments, late-night notes, and the stories beneath the stories.
