misery tourism

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At some point, the deer stopped dying.

At a gathering of New York socialites one stands at the end of the table and starts to speak

I had lost all faith in modernity long before I was disemboweled by an artillery shell.

I don’t know what this Thing is that lives in my stomach and that demands something from me and that Will Not Shut Up.

It was the witching hour, too late to be night yet too early to be morning.

I challenge everyone who crosses the bridge

Jurey could not appreciate the ice.

A car parked in the parking lot, not ten yards away, blasting Kanye West’s “Bound 2”, and it poured through the open window of Alex’s apartment.

here’s a place to drink up

These were the years you renamed yourself, smoked a white clay pipe, endured night sweats and empty thought bubbles.