Translation was never possible. Instead there was always only conquest, the influx of the language of hard nouns, the language of metal, the language of either/or, the one language that has eaten all...
Toast was a pointless invention from the Dark Ages. Toast was an implement of torture that caused all those subjected to it to regurgitate in verbal form the sins and crimes of their past lives. Toast...
Toast is me.I am toast.
Toast cannot be explained by any rational means. Toast is me. I am toast.
To want is to have a weakness. It's this weakness, whatever it is, that entices me. It's like a small crack in a wall, before now impenetrable.
To be rendered unconscious; to lie exposed, without shame, at the mercy of others; to be touched, incised, plundered, remade - this is what they are thinking of when they look at him, with their widen...
Time is going faster and faster; the days of the week whisk by like panties.
Though it’s hard to concentrate on the idea of a future. She’s too immersed in the present:
Those in pain have no time for the pain they cause.
This bug is something new though. We’ve got the bioprint.
This afternoon held that special quality of mournful emptiness I've connected with late Sunday afternoons ever since childhood: the feeling of having nothing to do.
They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying of too much choice.
They meet in church basements and offer bandages to those wounded by the shrapnel of exploding families.
They are as happy as they can be, given who they are. Though if they'd been different people they might have been happier.
These words are yours,though you never said them,you never heard them, historybreeds death but if you killit you kill yourself.
These days I script whole fights, in my head, and the reconciliations afterwards, too.
There’s something to be said forhunger: at least it lets you know you’re still alive.
There’s only so long you can feel sorry for a person before you come to feel that their affliction is an act of malice committed by them against you.
There’s nothing more for me to see. The bridge is only a bridge, the river a river, the sky is a sky. This landscape is empty now, a place for Sunday runners. Or not empty: filled with whatever it is...
There’s nothing like a shovelful of dirt to encourage literacy.