No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. It's Just One Planet. But There Are Many Stories.
Ai Weiwei's foreman looks remarkably similar to Ai himself, so much so that when people see him (the foreman, that is) there is the kind of communal, hushed stirring that happens around a possible celebrity sighting: Is that—? No, it couldn't be…is it though? The disappointment when the truth is revealed: no, it’s not Ai Weiwei. The man in question turns out to be one of four of Ai’s employees who have traveled from China to the States on his behalf.
And still you mould your familiar clay, Its edges hopelessly soft and yielding. Please, take up some sharp and heavy something, Shatter these pieces and burn the pointed shards.
We're born to pine, kin, and stone. Home's harsh tang to us never sours in the mouth.
In Mongolia, sheets of milky ice stretch over flat plains, go on and on and on, a monotony so strong, very little breaks it.
Mr. Morgan considered his situation. He couldn’t keep paying this much to Eleanor, not without finding another job, not while he struggled to feed himself with cheap cereal and canned garbage; he’d lost wi-fi and every day he went to the local library to browse job opportunities. Online tutoring wasn’t an option without an internet connection at home. And face to face teaching… he’d lost all taste for that. But he delayed applying for the bottom-dweller jobs. He perused zero qualification entry positions that made his soul quiver with fear. It seemed there remained a part of himself to lose.
Eleanor smirked and swung her legs around to leave their table.
…the men who survived the failure of media