"There are no actual pages. They are hollow. They are just for show. I think how perfect that is, how much of the literary world is just for show. Hollow. Superficial. More often than not it doesn’t matter the words inside, only the name on the book, the book as an object, the author as object. Author as persona. Author as capitalistic commodity. Minor celebrity. A name to drop at a New York City party."
But in this Freudian foreshadowing, Toto doesn’t quite realize that he’s far from Catholic school, with its rules and fall-in-line rigidity.
This story’s about a trip. It’s a strange word. Trip. As a noun, it means a journey or excursion, going somewhere and returning, especially for pleasure, or to stumble or fall. It’s also the word used
'It's a Catch-22 situation,' she said contentedly.
And I thought, 'Fuck this shit into tiny, tiny pieces.'
I extended my time at the Hotel de Paris to fall into the bad habit of making love to the maid. And to recover and regain my strength, as my flu-ish bug was stubborn and I feared being on the road for too long with it.
I feel sexy / as a sheared sheep
The idea behind this silencing was that new views might have an easier time taking hold if the old one weren't always barging into the fish schools and stamping on the new view's seeds before the seeds had latched.
in the mirror the face you see yourself | I’m so fucking good at this | the eye is an aleph and every place is you
The winding roads were scattered with sneakily merging lanes and work-ahead signs. This would have set my head in a whirl if I weren't driving. We spotted sage, turquoise, and navy blue hues on our
I think HH resented me for making him feel pedestrian, a cliché to himself; the male artist requesting a sort of self-censorship of the female artist on his behalf. (Image is everything and/but he wanted to control his; I had no right to it, to my version of it/him, in his male mind.)
Delve a little deeper into the mind of author Wilson Koewing
Finally she told him she was feeling the same way, but that she didn’t have the words for it. Just the emoji of the face with only eyes and nothing else.
The more lucid among them felt an uplift in his presence; as if, as one patient put it, they were passengers on a luxury ocean liner bound for Europe.
what to do with this boyfriend sized chasm?
fell into two traps—both of which I later found out were common coping mechanisms for those of us heavily affected by COVID isolation: a toxic relationship and belief in astrology
Five things you can see, four things you can touch, three you can hear, two smell, and one taste.
Then there he was, the cowboy whose name I forget, but remember as tall and lank and dressed in slim dark jeans he’d tucked into his boots unembarrassed. Having grown up in Texas, I understood everything about him in an instant on a level the British girl never could.
It was cold out.
He never did meet the kid.
He arrived in the city with an STD.
