write a last will: there are breadcrumbs to be left under the topaz blue of the oversized sofa, that passed from one lover to another a chain of grievances and fur from new pets there are old leather volumes in the nook claimed by siblings living just above the hole
It seems to come to me only when I am quite far from it - that is, when the chances of my trying to tame it are next to nothing - so that what I am left with is trails - just scratches on a surface, jitters of a tight
I've loved you like a conqueror now I want to learn to love you like smoke wafting up into a room full of fog like a log in a fire, surface by slow flaking surface into a new and energetic form I want to learn to do the work of
the stack is in the batter - go in with broad bread hook holding on the left, giving on the right carbon form of flagrant rite - clamoring, harboring freight train harmonies - monotone, polychrome - late clattering of argument cups, starch, and cloth go once, come go back and
"Shoot a web3 developer" – the speaker, my acquaintance Ella, is being provocative, but it touches a nerve. It's day 3 of MCH2022, one of the northwestern european hacker camps (along with Chaos Camp, Electromagnetic Field, BornHack) which used to be in a four-year rotation, but are now all trying to
Of course, if it were really a GIGAfactory, it would be approximately the size of the continental united states. In point of fact, it's just a factory. But then, that is the hilarity and absurdity of an enterprise that has mostly won or lost on marketing. We took the train
i woke up lifetimes ago at dawn to write this but it took me until now to sit my body down at the clavier to strike chords and post boards above the glare of the canal's edge you were a whisper of grass you were a hollering wind in a
प्रातः स्मरामि हृदि संस्फुरदात्मतत्त्वं सच्चित्सुखं परमहंसगतिं तुरीयम् । यत्स्वप्नजागरसुषुप्तिमवैति नित्यं तद्ब्रह्म निष्कलमहं न च भूतसङ्
sometimes the spirit moves through you, and sometimes it don't sometimes papa is home, and sometimes he's out to lunch. who will survive? none who with thrive? this one. I do apologize for every note of every song that's sung amok atop the the calling pyramid homes. these mushy fingers,
call me colophone one more memory of me for the hole one more kiss on the face of the deep one more telling of our story A bed of leaves, a peeling bark. The towers where we climb. Climbed and climbing into fragments, solid-souled rampage feet - the hardly there
I brush my keen father feather against the flesh of the night, the air inside your vowel sound gives way to the blaying and bleating of this goat beard. breathless, suddenless, thunderous one-ness of this compositionality, positional martyrdom, sacrificial bartering at the market stalls of our unison. beautiful brick wall,
Just surviving in these times, that's about all one can do. The day will come again when my free time flows freely toward experimentation and stories and art and love. Right now, to give myself the kindness of just getting through, that's about all I can do. I've often wanted