Anything that begins with a pretense of coherence is plainly stupid. DIRECTOR OF CASTING: I have but one request. Bring me someone that is riddled with humanity, someone who does not dissolve into wh...
The physicist broke the world; The world broke the physicist. In the city, towers bloom inward, fetal.Towers condescend, towers boast, towers pierceonly whatever plane lies abovethe tallest ambition...
Has it ever occurred to you that impact is commonly considered a measure of how much a stranger thinks of you? That by projecting an impression, we allow for a consideration of a summary of us that, ...
It is frightening, to either be in control of ones limbs or the things that tie them [like Heisenberg, I suppose.]
There is something that appeals to every cartographer about the trajectory of a heartbreak.
Loneliness is the easiest thing to feel and There is nothing that was ever unimaginable. (sometimes I wonder whether the world is a mirror.) There is a hierarchy of fact in which ...
The only thing I ever killed was possibility −
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 20.0px; font: 16.0px Marker Felt} p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Baskerville} span.s1 {letter-spacing: 0.0px} She states of ...
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 14.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica} span.s1 {letter-spacing: 0.0px} "Its excessively strange, isnt it? " she said. "How we can only...
she wanted to be everything, but echoes were never rooted in permanence, and so what was was undefined, a string-theorists nightmare. He told her this. She let fragility envelo...
passages from the mailman’s wake …in the days before winter, we floated on the things we sought to see. now we drown the ship before it sets sail. - in these beads, we mold an uncomfortable truth int...
she holds only murdered echoes of proximity; no one has yet been convicted for the crime, though we have all set out on the pursuit of sound.(trying rather hard to sustain the laughter of this illegi...
[from a journal] to the ghost of winter: relics are their own poetry, they haunt the fingertips of strangers. you weave yourself like stagnant rain, irascible and tarnished, edges of these diamond-po...
is it possible to feel too much? evenings incendiary is syncopated in the way of a toddler, stumbling on fountains but always desiccated, reminiscent of a fractured stage and ...
wings; how they toy with thin filaments of broken hearts. oh, we do convince ourselves that what we never caught(with bruised hands) we somehow did let go. wings; how light they are in our escape, b...
she tries to be a cartographer, etching and blurring the desultory veins of her hand until their absence is more palpable than sorrow. the branches are still not right. she lets the shavings loose on...
the dark, the dark; she cries into the brush translucent tears that filter a spectrum and in the morning everyone is laughing for the sake of effervescent dewdrops. daybreak is not where sight begins...
[dubais skyline] I am afraid that angels will dissolve at the sight of grit. I am afraid that I cannot stomach an atmosphere. we ...
[photo credit] in the night, we wait in feverish anticipation for Santa Claus, eyes secretly half open. we leave him chocolate chip cookies. we have no idea what kind he prefers. she asks, what if he...
the days are so short, and now night has bleached day with a disseminating dye so bleak that it seems that wide eyes are the same as closed eyelids with the sun shining in(or was I falling asleep?) a...
[photo source] the geminids. they are a splattered mess of a thousand broken necklaces, a million hanging lights that fall through tiny holes onto the grass. they blur and spin and burn like the snow...
sunday afternoon on the river. the bridge cartwheels over the shores like the top-string in a tapestry. in the water, the sky is deep and high all at once. canoes are paintbrushes, fish are wind. a l...
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