I sleep on the bus flat on my back like a tipped statue of buddha, crossed legs along the wall, knees pointed vaguely toward heaven, my hands demurely folded together, tucked in the warm, ragged edges of my sleeves. Awkward, possibly, but it's comfortable.

My dreams last night were all of an old friend, the two of us living in a city we've never ( Read more... )

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Sunday - we were still a city burning, but now on the horizon, as if the time between us were embodied in distance, impulsive steps out into a desert. Persepolis, though his name might be the name of my next god-child, I was never certain if I would wake next to him again. Enchanting, built of admirable social immunities, a strange ruin painted ( Read more... )

My clothes all smell like clever musician. I'm almost too tired to be writing.

Albino Moose in Norway is under threat.


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