Spirit was a by-product of activity, like the reflection from a spinning fan blade, and our souls in the end did not reside within us but flowed outward from our movements.
Sometimes, when a person is truly lost in this world, suffocating inside her private bubble where all she can hear is her own droning heartbeat, a touch can be enough.
Sometimes I wondered if my problem was liking too many different kinds of
He lived in two modes, the apparent and the veiled, and in two realms, the opera and the sewer, and he shuttled between them like a genie.
She was already dead, but we were starved for followers and stupefied by the elixir of our own heroism, and so we pretended words could resurrect her.
Our faith was a flickering flame.
Reliving his degradation had struck some spark in him and it was glowing now like a blown-on coal.
Our habit of wishing backward from what is to what might have been is the soft but persistent tapping that cracks the crystal.
Overpopulation has a ceiling: earth’s total surface area divided by the dimensions of one economy seat. One more baby is born and hello cannibalism.
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