Perhaps I am very late to the party but I see now that capitalism and justice are incompatible.
The longer I write, the more I chafe against established structures in form, in genre.
Maybe it’s something about middle age but I’ve also started to hate my bras no matter how stretchy and temporarily comfortable.
I keep wanting out but without actually wanting to go out.
I wonder what anti-capitalist bookmaking looks like because I might want to do that.
Talking to my bestie on Zoom I just realized that my summer has been about loss and recovery.
After peak experiences my body goes through a phase of recalibration.
I need more rest.
I have an idea that’s so hot and trying to figure out a way to realize it while resisting a capitalist structure is blowing my mind wide open.
Much to my surprise, I may have a literary future in German.
I’ve made a lot of promises in the last 24 hours.
What makes me click on an essay that suggests laughter but is really about suffering?
I seek out evening sweetness as a private reassurance; sugar and rejection are fundamentally at odds.
We broke a family pattern today which was hard, and then fun.
No one tells you that show-and-tell in kindergarten exists to prepare us for adult office parties later in life.
The final sentence dreams of greatness and barely manages closure.