I keep landing here, and it would be convenient—comforting, even—if I could reduce it to a single cause. If I could pin it to one trauma, one diagnosis, one unlucky streak of “the wrong people,” and then feel like the solution is obvious: stop doing the thing that leads to this place. But the problem with convenient stories is that they’re usually designed to protect us from the more brutal truth, which is that patterns don’t repeat because we’re stupid. They repeat because s

Lately I’ve been sitting with a sentence that keeps repeating itself in different forms, offered as advice, framed as wisdom, delivered with certainty: relationships are supposed to be reciprocal. Equal effort. Match energy. Don’t over-give. Meet people where they are, even if that means stepping back, going quiet, or cutting contact altogether. On the surface, none of that sounds unreasonable. It makes intuitive sense. And yet the more I’ve tried to apply it cleanly, the mor

There are albums that are meant to add  something new. And then there are albums that exist to reinvent and refocus. Encore in the Ashes  is the latter. This record is not a collection of new confessions. It’s not a diary. It’s not a response to any single moment, person, or event. Instead, it’s a deliberate re-entering of the worlds I’ve already built— Carry the Dawn , Carry the Night , Carry the Ember , Circus of Ash , The Final Circus , Embers in the Glass , and The Cabare

The Cabaret of Rewritten Poems was built deliberately as a staged experience rather than a loose collection of adaptations. Each piece is drawn from public-domain poetry, rewritten and set to music in a cabaret / circus framework, then ordered to form a clear emotional progression—from confinement, to reckoning, to release. Click here to check the album out on Spotify What follows is not a personal backstory, but a map of the show. Act I — The Room and the Question The album

A record about staying I didn’t make this album because I wanted to. I made it because something in me was breaking faster than I could explain it, and the only way I know how to keep myself here when that happens is to build something honest enough to hold the weight. Embers in the Glass is not a diary. It’s not a highlight reel. It’s not a redemption arc. It’s what came out of me while my nervous system was on fire, while love collapsed into questions, while systems I was s

By Morgan Miller Introduction Shadow work, as popularized through Carl Jung, encourages individuals to confront the hidden parts of themselves — the fears, insecurities, resentments, and unacknowledged motives that shape our behavior. At its best, it fosters personal insight and growth. It can help someone notice the difference between what is happening now and what a past wound is trying  to make them believe is happening. It can interrupt cycles of defensiveness and project

AI didn’t make me an artist. I was already an artist from childhood. It helped me stay alive long enough to remain one. I need to say something about AI and art, and I need to say it in a way that doesn’t pretend this is simple. Because it isn’t. And because I’m tired—so tired—of watching people treat every complex situation like it’s a courtroom drama with a clear-cut monster, a clear-cut hero, and a clean little ending where everyone claps and justice magically happens in

A Field Guide to Future-Faking, Overwhelm, Polyamorous Grief, and the Quiet Ruptures We Don’t Notice Until They Break Us There are heartbreaks that scream, and then there are heartbreaks that simply… vanish. Not with a dramatic ending. Not with a fight. Just a sudden absence — a door closing mid-sentence while the ink is still wet. This is a post about that second kind. Not as a callout. Not as a revenge letter. Not as a “here’s what you did to me.” This is a map. A prot

Preface (For the One Who Might Someday Read This) If you ever read this, I want you to know I do not hate you. What happened hurt me deeply— and it hurt my wife too— but the hurt is grief, not anger. I understand, even in the parts you didn’t say aloud, why you pulled away: the fear, the overwhelm, the suddenness of intimacy that your nervous system couldn’t hold. That doesn’t mean I believe the way it ended was right; there were gentler, clearer ways this could have unfolded

A trilogy of the heart There are some projects that don’t begin as projects. They begin as pressure — as something caught under the ribs, building and building until your chest feels full of static. These albums weren’t outlined, planned, or sketched on a whiteboard. They grew the way storms do: in pieces, in layers, across years of feelings that refused to stay quiet. I didn’t sit down one day and say, I’m going to make music. What really happened is that I’d been carrying t

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t just fill a room — it presses against it. Then it hums in your ears until you start to wonder if it isn’t silence at all, but a frequency only conscience can hear. It’s the quiet that comes after you’ve finally said everything that mattered. Not just once. Not just in passing. But over and over — gently, honestly, vulnerably. You put your care into the world, shaped it into words, actions, offerings. And for a while, you believed that ef

A book for those who still believe kindness can survive the noise. We’re all tired. But tired isn’t the end of caring. After years of tracing what happens after outrage fades, the work finally became a book. It’s called Ethicism: The Practice of Care — and it’s out now. If this language feels like home to you, it’s waiting in print. There’s no mailing list, no campaign — just the book itself, waiting for whoever still believes care matters. Click below to get your copy: Pape

In short:  I wrote a book—one that’s been years in the making—and it’s about to find its way into the world. I didn’t set out to write a philosophy originally. I set out to answer a smaller, messier question: how do you keep caring when the world keeps asking you not to? If you’ve been here a while, you know the terrain—posts that begin with a headline and end somewhere quieter, more stubborn. You know the rhythm of my essays: the way a sentence will start like a match and en

The world does not change because someone writes a list of rules. It changes when enough people decide that kindness no longer needs permission. I used to think ethics was a philosophy. Something you debated, defined, then filed away under “theory.” But theory doesn’t stop a hand from shaking when it has to choose whether to help or to look away. Theory doesn’t reach across a counter, or stand between a cruelty and its next excuse. Living with conscience isn’t an idea; it’

The ruins are always quieter than you expect. After the sirens, after the statements, after the footage has been looped until meaning bleeds out of it, there’s a hush no one knows what to do with. Broken glass has its own kind of silence. Smoke drifts like a thought that refuses to finish itself. You can hear your breath again, and that can feel like treason when the world is calibrated for rage. From the beginning, the story moved like this: a shot, then a script. A body, th

It began with rage. With the mirror cracking. With the moment you realized that the monsters you condemned were human—and that meant you were, too. In Those We Call Monsters , we named what we feared. We stared into the fire and saw our reflection moving inside it. We traced the lineage of cruelty, how it feeds on righteousness, how every generation swears their violence is holy. We followed that wheel of vengeance and found ourselves standing in its center. The revelation wa

It’s easy to hate. It’s easy to call it righteous. It’s easy to look at the wreckage and think, I’ll never be like them, while clutching your own blade a little tighter. Because anger feels clean. It makes the world simple again. There’s a strange comfort in fury — in naming villains, in pointing toward what’s wrong and feeling, for once, that you’re on the side of what’s right. But I’ve learned that even righteous anger rots if you hold it too long. It starts whispering to y

His name isn’t here. It doesn’t need to be. He could have been anyone—someone’s son, someone’s favorite person, someone who carried more light than most people realize they’re capable of holding. There are people who move through the world as reminders. They don’t lecture or preach. They simply are. Their laughter softens a room, their small acts of patience change its temperature, and before you know it, they’ve quietly rearranged your understanding of what compassion means.

We trace the patterns. That’s what we do. Not because we want to be prophets, or martyrs, or right. But because we’re scared. Because we’ve seen this before. Because somewhere beneath the noise and the slogans and the calls for blood, we remember what it means to be human. This is the tenth post in a series I wish I never had to write. I thought maybe one piece would be enough. One scream. One warning. One grief made public. But the world kept moving. The machine kept turnin

It starts with a shrug. A cough dismissed. A mask pocketed. A headline scrolled past. The quiet normalization of risk. The idea that “everyone will get it eventually.” That some people just won’t make it, and that’s fine. That’s the price of moving on. But that’s how political violence begins — not with spectacle, but with consent. With the slow erosion of empathy, the bureaucratization of suffering, the dulling of outrage until neglect becomes policy. The body count turns in