According to Amado, I’m sharing more intimate details—more corazón—at the readings. Thursday, I read Eulogy of the Living (a sewn together piece I shared a few months ago) and a post from the blog. “My writing’s always been personal,” I defended myself, not knowing why. “Yeah, but…” And I knew what he meant. Give a man a mask, and he will tell the truth. I’m just a man whose outgrown masks. I dropped the Ennui Prayer moniker (though it’s forever present in the background of social network urls). Writing is therapy. The cliché is never been more prevalent. As a child, I started writing to keep my thoughts. To put things in order. To hold control over things I wouldn’t have otherwise. I worked…