girls are like triangles / pointed, mean and angry
A film crew hired to document a wealthy child's life gets shaken up when the boy joins their crew on his sixteenth birthday.
Because ideas only seem to strike in the shower, our columnist attempts to break free of writer's block by confining herself to a similar small space.
my girlfriend thinks i'm projecting.
It's been almost a year now since she started taking in the scent of printed numbers.
A translation of the Rainer Maria Rilke poem by a four time Jeopardy! champion.
i think there are more people like me out there. i'm pretty sure about it, actually. i'm at least willing to find out.
Relentless sunny California days lull the speaker of this poem into a dreamlike inertia.
This time, as we huffed in oppositional rhythms, her form dilated into another, crueler figure, now laboring to metamorphose. Something bigger than a border collie with a tongue hanging out, something beyond this moment, ancient and unfinished.
You are searching for the map in your head thinking: "Where am I?" Listening to the repulsive sound of the winter
sucking at the bones of the trees.
My sin–reading a comic book when she was going on and on about God or at least Samson–and said to me, "Now you know better than to bring that to class," meaning the Man of Steel, or at least his latest adventure.
i wonder what a redwood looks like.
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