Sometimes I can’t look at people when I walk because feeling the obligation to acknowledge the sentience of so many selves makes me want to throw up. A landscape of moving cut-outs more easily please the egoist, and are more easily harmed by him too.
Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I wish I could jump up and grab hold of the fan and have its arms rotate me. Then I could feel connected to its regularity and have a nice breeze on my body.
I love putting on a sweater face first and being warmly hidden while my hands search feelingly for the sleeves. It’s a brief and socially acceptable reprieve that touches on my desire for a cat’s indolent lifestyle.
The makers of umbrellas must have a love/hate relationship with hair. They don’t want hair to get wet, but it’s all cool that the spokes will rip your hair out if your head even touches them. Baldness already runs in my family, so I don’t really need to give it a head start. Is that… Continue reading Umbrellas
Happy birthday America, may your candles light up the world and an infant immigrant’s face with the wish already granted by your existence.
I want to be a warrior for whimsy, a flighty fighter, a Wilde winning Oscar flaunting the firmness of flimsy.
Oh how we sacrifice those subtle sounds for the protective and dream-like bubble that music blared straight into the ears creates. Silence becomes unbearable as our bodies’ natural rhythms, paled by music’s palpable pulsing, become indiscernible and insufficient. Is the loss worth the gain? Let me whisper you the answer…