“Well, I grew up on the blues, man!” — Gil Scott-Heron

I have a novel that I can write. It's about three soldiers from Somalia. Some babies have been disappearing up on 144th Street, and I speculate later on what happened to them and how they might have been got back. These guys are dead, all three, and they have a chance in the afterlife to do something they should have done when they were alive.

I am honestly not sure how capable I am of love. And I'm not sure why.

Our accomplishments show what kind of people we are.

Colour is not the issue in America; class is.