On the morning of my sixteenth birthday I made a list of stuff I didn't believe in anymore.
“It was misery, real misery. But, Doc keeps telling me I’m all clear, so I ain’t going to argue with him.”
scare tactics
I grew hands by the dozen
I was a generalized reaching
clasping monster it was
not a dream shared or
otherwise it was neither
yours nor mine nor ours
the scariest
"What am I supposed to do?"
And christ it's gonna be hot inside the tiny bar where SUMAC is playing tonight. I should've stayed home. Like I always do. An old man on his couch.
i know it’s not something you really need to hear—i’m just one of many fans—but can I just take the opportunity on this comments section to say, i really love how you brush your hair
I don’t feel like I’m very good at writing a serious story with super realistic violence and human emotion. I feel like it has to be filtered through some kind of absurd or weird lens.
Did we go to Boston twice or did all this happen in one trip? I remember two different rooms but we used to change hotels all the time, just to feel like criminals. Once we stayed in an old converted
The kettle boiled; I made the tea,
And when I turned around,
I saw she’d set the cups and placed
A third one for the skull.
please believe me
when i tell you this
when i tell you of the high concentration of uranium and thorium
Lucy seemed to love being shocking.
I was small and fragile like the antique vases in her parent’s living room, the ones we could lookbutdon’ttouch.
"Eve Learns to Dominate," "Farmers' Market," "Small-Town Fuck Geometry," and "Religious Art"
Two writers in conversation.
Ours was a world that devised its own sense.
He was at the sink washing dishes ...
