The essay I meant to write was about decisions. The margins kept a more accurate book. There is a sum in the corner that is either a bus fare or a debt to a friend, and a drawing of a cup I do not remember making, and the words try again in a hand that looks more awake than I was. I used to trim manuscripts as if the edge were a shame. Lately I think the margin is where the piece admits its life: the hour, the hunger, the alternative sentence that was kinder and which I was not yet brave enough to promote. This is not an argument for publishing the doodles. It is a thank-you to the part of the page that was never trying to be impressive, and that therefore kept the news.#
This is an excerpt. The complete piece is in the print and digital edition of Issue 03.