Yehong Zhu

You never really said goodbye, and I never did get closure.

The second time your lives cross, you are walking down 45th and 7th when you feel a light tap on your shoulder.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” —Ernest Hemingway Ernest Hemingway knew a thing or two about pouring one’s élément vital onto a blank page.

But somewhere along the way, success had become bittersweet. Life had become a series of stepping stones en route to a moving destination, a blur of cities viewed through the window of a tour bus.

Manual labor wasn’t my forte, but at least I was enthusiastic.