The protectors said that I am allowed to tell this story once, in whatever way I like. Short or long, winding or direct, fragmented, unfinished, sloppy, poetic, analytic, full of plot holes, too abstract, in graphic detail, all political, clouded with anger, woven out of silence, muttered under my breath, through prayer, in love letters, via email, over text, whispered under the blankets, screamed for the mountains, sobbed, swam, sung, drawn, danced. The protectors said tell the truth, exactly as you need to tell it, and then give this story up; to the wind, to the world, to the gods, to your ghosts.

To surrender language is to surrender narrative is to surrender truth. To write this story is to empty myself. To cleanse the temple is to face the ugly shit. To face the ugly shit is a plea, a cry, a hope. Would you carry this story with me? Would you help me put this down? -Publisher