One by one he vanishes, part
of a long line I don’t remember
falling around, covers the open
book please close your eyes,
Fever Snow and other Poems
Where You Belong
'A true place,' sounded like something Rob would say after leaving a warm bed on a moonless night to laze on the cold ground and awe at the sight of three planets aligned. He could make you want to believe it was all that mattered.
Super
One morning, Kind-Responsible-No-Baggage-Man isn’t in bed. He saunters in at 10AM with cappuccinos and he’s not wearing his mask. There’s a purple bruise ringed on his cheek like fish lips. “I need to tell you something,” he says.
Mrs. Osmond by John Banville
The language in Mrs. Osmond is like the colors of autumn in New England. It’s brilliant even in its decay.
Nocturama: a film by Bertrand Bonello
Nocturama, the provocative new film by Bertrand Bonello, opens with a handful of young Parisians performing wordless and labyrinthian maneuvers through the city’s Metro. They dump phones into wastebaskets, bear mysterious packages, and give each other silent, intimate looks.
On the Balcony
Helen was found on the sprawling covered balcony that overlooked the valley, swaying from the rafters like a pendant, graceful as she always was. Kate wondered if anyone had seen her from below, floating amongst the potted palms and grasses. Perhaps from a distance she appeared to be dancing.