a hat is a hat i pulled a rabbit out of her hat to make a hat out of her rabbit end user philistine
What I’m Reading:
More than half of the 2.6 million people living in Miami-Dade County could be displaced if sea levels rise by 40 inches . . . Miami could have around 80,000 properties flooding by mid-century, a multibillion-dollar risk, due to the combination of sinking land and rising seas, researchers say . . .
— Eliza Relman / “Miami shows how a new kind of gentrification is coming to US cities” / Business Insider
we are a family of 2-beef apostrophes in a drunk bullfinch you can donate your earlier gloats slop them drop them + run we r stylin’ in spaceship america contact ur local pollution dept.
come wallow in the excrescence eddy glimmers for bubble stunts welcome sliver them under my doorway fresh walls available for firing squad wannabes
What I’m Reading:
When I look at myself I see a stranger. So obsessed am I with feeling That I sometimes lose my way when I step free From all the sensations I receive.
Electric bedroom New witch Add wall next to track Wedge or arc Change entry
Too damaged by Change We want to keep them at 8 foot height Close Metal doors No change to living hard pain Change vanity Apart (we may do this ourselves) No change to pain
There is a fine line between losing yourself and finding your deepest truths. Sometimes there is no line at all.
— Laura Killingbreck / “Into the Wind” / Bicycling
The frequency with which bicyclists are hit on the road makes me believe it is a rite of passage and that not having personally been hit is an indicator that I have yet to achieve true bicycler status. This inference might stem from humanity’s positive spin on suffering: battle scars earn us glory.
— Tree Abraham / Cyclettes
you entered the dwelling place of dead tenderness alive and in each step you recognized yourself as an enticing answer the world hasn’t changed from ash for you nor has anguish crucified itself
— Tristan Tzara / “Speaking Alone”
In the labyrinth of memories, I often ask myself how much are they in flux, what mattered when, and how much has evaporated or changed tonality. How true are our memories?
— Werner Herzog / Every Man for Himself and God Against All
Besides, nothing inside me is ever certain or In agreement with my self … Beautiful hours Belong to others, or simply don’t exist.
— Álvaro de Campos / “Three Sonnets”
. . . only moving / does it have a soul.
— Pablo Neruda / “Ode to Bicycles”
In that moment I understood: Joy was its own form of power. It flowed through people, through landscapes, through wind and motion. It radiated from the body and was stored there, too. Joy was limitless and easy to share. After all these miles, I’d arrived somewhere.
— Laura Killingbreck / “Into the Wind” / Bicycling
What I’m Listening To:
I’m just dressing for the weather, and the forecast is for pain
i love me an agitator cola—drank many thru the years—during the revolutions and convolutions of martial law and coups—upon the ferment fringes, the ferry boat frivolities, and mere highlighter battles with the brittle page—a brush with agent coils and deadbeat plenipotentiaries—many a casual contrainsurgency compote consumed—electroplated and anodized death from above—daisy-chained and strafed—a full life of fingermark detonations and finicky trigger fingers—oh, what a feeling, that subtle wisp of menace before the darkness—i’m the hand of the man who leads—the hand of the man u voted for, or supported on his rise—i’m ur hand by transitive property—aren’t we a peach?
What I’m Reading:
The end is coming. I picture a radical turning away from thought, argument, and image, not just an approaching darkness in which certain objects can still be felt, but a condition where they no longer exist at all, a darkness filled with fear, with imaginary monsters.
— Werner Herzog / Every Man for Himself and God Against All
He composed a text to her, intending to say: “I’m going to be a strong arm robber,” but the auto correct produced: “I want to be s thong arm tobber.”
She responded: “U mean a strong arm fibber?” She had turned off her autocorrect months ago, confident in her speed and accuracy.
He responded: “no a string arm ribber.” His fused thumb again unable to hit the mark.
She threw her phone in the river from the Mass Avenue Bridge. She’d always wanted to see something she’d thrown disappear in the Charles River murk.
A few yards later, she dove into the river. Nonplussed, he watched her disappear into the murk.
What I’m Reading:
Riding downhill can be a serene exhilaration after a strenuous climb. But it can also represent the decline after a peak experience. I don’t want there to be an ultimate summit. Instead, waves. Crests falling into vales with a momentum to carry me down and on back up ad infinitum.
undesirable midriff chicken thieves the long hock of american frippery gentlemen strategists and exponents of farewells to rooks and frontispieces filaments upon the dockyards of miracles an inexorable western expansion employed by eugenecists of privilege and destruction
uneven accountability for our past never look back no reiteration required
What I’m Reading:
The real ogres are the ones who are complete gentlemen.
— Matthew Thomas Meade / “Sunshowers” / Strip Mall: Stories
Cycling was a way of staying in motion and coming home to myself. When nothing else made sense, I could go—dissolving into breath and sky—and let the wind rearrange me.
— Laura Killingbreck / “Into the Wind” / Bicycling
thee istsfor manity reader 