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am I now a walking accident waiting to happen? Why am I more worried about that than whether there’s an afterlife?
Like most conversations between consenting adults, nothing crucial’s been exchanged.
Black people bear a heavy burden trying to be normal. It’s no wonder they hate us. I’d hate us, too.
dressed for the blind, not for the winter.
Discovering the disease that’s going to kill you can apparently be an exhilarating tale of late-in-life discovery—if only because genuine late-in-life discoveries are fewer and fewer.
everybody knows everything, and already doesn’t know what to do with it.
