for a winner / is every loser / outright butler / flat tire singing / the license plate frame / insisting
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The end of history is the eternal present of a bureaucracy without humans.
My dollhouse consulting room is at the scale of my truth, and is therefore the true room.
the toucan w/ the tidy mind who handles distribution at the paris review
Hamrah writes to a tub of over entertained frogs warming in shitty media bathwater he wants to drop a toaster oven into.
Thus the three dominant justifications of art in our time, as a strategy of self-knowledge, as means of therapy, as a road to empathy, are thrown out with the soiled bathwater.
As in a pantomime, we only know through happening.
Whistles and honks and encrypted messages and patrols and training and sit-ins and food drives and carpools.
Into the rest, I sank with a kind of agreeable, warm bafflement.
Why hold onto your books so tenderly, he asked. Why collect them in such great quantities with no intention to read them?
Rarely can one stomach the fact that to write political entails that you live political, as Cortez certainly did.
Narrative in the novel is meant to terrify. In the movie, it rehabilitates.
the pictures, of you, begin to resemble, you, less, the more, you scroll down.
Could a bullet be a language?
Shimmering at the barely visible edge of the horizon, the faintest color of hope.