I’m beginning to understand why so many novels and television shows are set in the past.
Night walk to the corner bodega and I nearly forgot to wear my bandana.
The smile is the expression that can be seen from farthest away.
Tonight I miss sitting in diners and listening to people murmur and jive, scraping their forks and stirring their coffee.
Maybe I should work on my resume. Instead, I press on with reading The Plague, dropping the book every few pages to marvel at its resonance.
Strange how something you’ve heard a thousand times can suddenly knock you over.
Sometimes there’s poetry in anger, and I saw it scrawled across the street this afternoon.
Flipping through an old notebook last night, I came across a page dedicated to the first time I saw a painting by Hubert Robert.
There should be a clinical term for the sensation of wanting to look at my phone while looking at my phone.
I remember the sound of white thunder, that bone-shuddering crack as another piece of a glacier fell into the sea.
New York City. My attention span has been chewed up by the news.
Two hours of brand-new material mixed with ambient classics, unholy amounts of reverb, and a touch of Connie Francis. Produced for Mysteries of the Deep’s broadcast on 9128.live.
I find myself frequently returning to a century-old line from The Surrealist Manifesto: “Let yourself be carried along. Events will not tolerate your interference.”
I thought I’d dreamt about standing before my bookcase and picking up a copy of The Plague by Camus.
I can’t stop staring at this photograph. I study the woman’s mouth, teeth bared and jaw dropped, probably wrapped around a word like tyranny or freedom.
