Capitol Hill Books

It was hidden at the end of the street. A used bookstore, modestly sized, with a little man of elderly age reading at the counter. His face featured abnormally bushy brows.

A bell chimed as Eileen cracked the door open. Books of all sizes lined the shelves, spreading both horizontally and vertically. Newspaper clippings were scattered across the furniture. The clutter of the space felt secure.

Like the home of a stranger, Eileen thought.

She took her time poking around the shelves, plucking out interesting titles or familiar authors. In the end she settled on a biography.

After she paid…


A series of tweets on creative scheduling and distinctions between mediums of creation.

One of my goals for my gap year is to create. To produce as much as possible, leaving imprints of evidence over the web. At school I feel I’ve consumed a lot. However, most of the information was contained, rarely channeled into something outside my head of my own creation.

Recently I read this list on writer’s block, and it made me think: I don’t have much discipline to my creation right now. Instead I kind of follow my whims according to how much energy and ideas are built up within me during the period of free time that I…


The internet is a wondrous place. Stray thoughts ride on radio waves, coasting from brain to brain. Deep connections made in this space may be rare, but in the off chance they occur, they’re freeflowing and instantaneous, with all the finer points of human interaction — body language, tone of voice, physical mannerisms — unwrapped and set aside. What’s left is an exchange of pure thought; an entanglement of abstractions in the brain.

I made a new friend some months ago. Her name is Yufei, and her head is full of wonderful reinterpretations of the world. We met at the…


I.

In a simpler time I firmly believed happiness could be secured with only three possessions: a bike, an iPod shuffle, and a notebook. Back then I biked whenever my workload thinned, the tunes of a recent playlist flowing in the background as I pedaled my way to the local highschool’s courtyard. Upon arrival, I’d pull out my journal. Then, under the shifting patches of sunlight, away from the stuffiness of my room, whatever stray thoughts were swimming in my head would empty out onto the page, from the most trivial, scant minnows, to the heaviest whales of worries. Entire…


Note: My reasons and interests have definitely shifted since illustrating the comic, but still, I think it’s worth posting.


A comic breakdown.

Published April 15th. Reposted June 30th, 2018.


post-graduation sentimentality

Ruby van Assendelft

I was sitting at Po Po’s apartment, after a breakfast of plum and ji dan gao, thinking about the vast difference between my experience of Chinese and American culture. Po Po is approaching on 80, but she still has friends she meets often, friends dating back to primary school. Meetups are loud and boisterous; every person looks out for the other’s back. Family is unconditional. They have gone through dips and curves together, celebrations and deaths. I, however, uprooted in America, am like a water molecule, in a liquid state. I hydrogen bond with other molecules, but only for a…


Threads of multicolored lights pulse from the heart of the city. On and off, they shimmer, twinkling. Cue the claps, one by one, to swell and unfold, until the whole plane has erupted in applause, in solidarity, at the beauty of life, from afar.

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A dialogue on writing as a medium.

With dry hands, she handed over the phone.

“Read this.”

It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.

“It’s pretty,” I said.

“Yeah, but can you imagine it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t. The description lays down a frame of the voice’s characteristics, but I’ve never heard a voice ‘that the ear follows up and down,’ and though I can hear a high pitched, feminine voice in my mind, it lacks the sort of musical quality that the passage…

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