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The story sounded very good told like this, all pride and scars, but at the time it had merely been dusty and confusing and full of men shouting in languages he didn’t know.
The '20s were just as sinful and opulent as Fitzgerald had promised, glimmering with dreams and destinies, or at least distractions.
Suddenly, the fact that she had signed up for a life without samosas seemed like the greatest tragedy of them all.
And she would be able to found Taylor Swift’s fan club.
You could fill all that quiet with memories, and I did.
Gleam of grey against the paler dust. Looked like stone but her hand said metal and the hand could often be trusted further than the eye. The eye was a mirror–it saw what you wanted it to see. The hand was not deceived so easily, or as often.
“Nothing sorts out memories from ordinary moments. It is only later that they claim remembrance, when they show their scars.” Chris Marker, La Jetée
It doesn’t care for television except for reruns of Law & Order. It cannot get enough of predictability. It says every episode is a bizarre upside-down bubble universe in which justice exists and things make sense.
Butch on the streets, churning maelstrom of intersecting time and matter in the sheets.
So that happened. Or will happen. Or is happening. Or someday might inevitably be unhappened. Maybe.
To be honest, I have come to welcome these quiet years, in which I can grow old and remember.
In all the millennia that human beings have survived on Earth and the moon, and briefly on Mars, no alien intelligences have introduced themselves. Perhaps they’re avoiding us—I would not blame them.
