Sometimes I fall asleep thinking about the ancient atomists.
This has been a year of references to plague novels and the dystopian skies of science fiction.
As I scrolled through the radio dial in search of company, I began to understand the appeal of its doomsday preachers.
Perhaps the best work scrambles genre and rides strange lines that might swerve at any moment.
Demons and hexes would nicely explain why some people behave the way they do.
It’s always good for me to be reminded that writing is a physical act.
I’m chilled by how quickly phrases like “the other side” have become so natural. Because that’s the grammar of war.
I wonder if there’s anything to learn from my recent drift towards color and my desire to return to monochrome.
Somewhere north of Columbus, we tuned in to the first night of the Democratic National Convention.
The body remembers slowly and forgets very quickly.
Three days without television or constant internet access—unless I drive twenty minutes to sit in the parking lot of a gas station.
