Thought.is

What does all this prove? Only that we want things we think we want but do not, and the things we had but gave away, those are the things we want more than anything.

I’m sorry. It’s clear now. We never had a shot.

Call me a literary schadenfreudist, but I like books about writers who fail at life.

Until we untie ourselves from the idea that one group of people is bad and the other is good, nothing will change. There will be a million more wasteful blog posts. A billion meaningless hashtags.

And though Jesus had made the two women, composed their breasts from nothing, even caused the sun to rise and give them that slightest twinge of brown, he couldn’t help but regret making their forms so healthy.

She invited me to the lit party as well. It would celebrate writers, and people who knew writers, and bloggers who once dated people who called themselves writers.

I do not tell my father what I do in the evening, my painting. I dream to be something elusive, and I fear that maddens him. Yet I continue. Because I cannot stop.