The July heat is merciless: even at nine in the evening the air is heavy, cloying, curling my hair into humid wisps at the back of my neck. But the cicadas are strumming, and if I sit especially still, I can feel the ghost of a cooler breeze on my skin, brushing by me like an attractive stranger, gone too soon for me to get a good look. The ( Read more... )

"What maybe we all need, sometimes, is to stop talking. To stand in the middle of a feeling and not compose 140 characters, or 612 pixels. To not translate, or to translate later. To translate less ( Read more... )