One night, dreaming, X. is struck by lightning; he understands that he is dying and he is suddenly, miraculously, dazzled and transformed; at this point in his dream, he attains the unexpected, but he wakes up.
Chess.com as a dating app.
I dreamed that Gore Vidal was publicly shaming Henry Miller, stoning him, calling him a narcissist, a slut, an unsatisfactory lover. Henry was just laughing, bones disfigured and face bloodied, his super-contentment bursting through his pores. No one understands, he was thinking to himself, this is the only way I can die, my fate demands it. It was a monumental clash of ideas, Biblical even, highbrow intellectualism with old money vs poverty-ridden joyous ecstasy.
Tattoo artists love to be like, “Books closed.”
My high school english teacher told me to use the scylla/charybdis phrase on dates and it has a 100% success rate.
The only modern poetry worth reading is from a terminally online collective of angelic shitposters.
Sitting in a room blowing smoke rings with Leonard Cohen during a thunderstorm.
Taking recs for what piece of art to put in a 16x20 frame.
“Something which was already there, something imperishable, like memory, or matter, or God, is summoned and in it one flings himself like a twig into a torrent.”
There is a modern day crusade of scene girls that are off to teach english abroad, America is ignorant of such a valuable asset.
Succor Sweetness.
Chess.com as a dating app.
I dreamed that Gore Vidal was publicly shaming Henry Miller, stoning him, calling him a narcissist, a slut, an unsatisfactory lover. Henry was just laughing, bones disfigured and face bloodied, his super-contentment bursting through his pores. No one understands, he was thinking to himself, this is the only way I can die, my fate demands it. It was a monumental clash of ideas, Biblical even, highbrow intellectualism with old money vs poverty-ridden joyous ecstasy.
Tattoo artists love to be like, “Books closed.”
My high school english teacher told me to use the scylla/charybdis phrase on dates and it has a 100% success rate.
The only modern poetry worth reading is from a terminally online collective of angelic shitposters.
Sitting in a room blowing smoke rings with Leonard Cohen during a thunderstorm.
Taking recs for what piece of art to put in a 16x20 frame.
“Something which was already there, something imperishable, like memory, or matter, or God, is summoned and in it one flings himself like a twig into a torrent.”
There is a modern day crusade of scene girls that are off to teach english abroad, America is ignorant of such a valuable asset.
Succor Sweetness.
