Nestlings

by Nat Cassidy

A garden of resentment was sown that day. Its hideous plants bloomed at irregular, unpredictable intervals. A sprig of hate. A blossom of blame. Entire teeming hedgerows of depression and alienation.

Each compromise was a link in a chain, and if that chain dragged you down to the bottom of the East River? Well … at least you had Netflix and Spotify to distract you while you sank.

Know your home. Know you’re home.

One problem with absurdists is they don’t always know when something stops being funny and starts being corrosive.”

The rest of his existence was only pain and horror. But for all that, on some dim, inchoate level, he was also elated.