In Old New YorkThe first time I rode in a subway since I was about five, I was sixteen. Excited by the simple action of sliding a metro-card through the reader and having the balance appear on the screen automatically, I was also somewhat surprised by the pitiful amount that had been left by a single swipe. For me, finding my way around New York’s underground was, by far, the most difficult aspect of New York City subways, which may seems stupid as I look back (everything is labeled in the cheap equivalent of flashing lights) but was perfectly rational to me as I navigated. The system I used was Zen Navigation in which, like Dirk Gently, I selected a pIn Old New York
Account from Mental HospitalAccount from St. Joseph’s Mental Hospital, July 19th He is there, sitting at his piano, five years old, playing. He haunts the darkened passages and corridors throughout which the notes flow, and I see his reflection gazing back at me. I still haven’t cleaned out his room; the shelves are covered in layers of books and the hideous red carpet with the checkered pattern that he said he wanted in the Wal-Mart so long ago is concealed under the clothes that he habitually wore – over and over again; his baseball mitt stands on the headboard of his bed as it always has. A picture of him in a baseball uniform I remember ironingAccount from Mental Hospital
Journal of the ImmortalJournal of the Mortal, Day’s Ending I guess I am afraid. Deeply afraid. A clock is an odd thing. It fits together with such mathematical precision. Any person at any point can but close their eyes to hear the ticking. The ticking. Endless. When we are young, a clock is a nebulous notion – time means nothing to us.Journal of the Immortal
When we get older, time becomes even stranger as we look around ourselves to understand. Relativity, the fifth-dimension, time travel, black holes, all the things to make the imagination dizzy with excitement. This is the point at which time is the future. Only here can we pretend to gr
Kafka the RavenI was running across fields of grass, to stop by a stream and pause. On a rock by the stream sat a raven, with coal-black feathers who glared at me with a single, golden eye. “Who do you think you are?” he asked, “running through these fields? You’ll hurt yourself, even you know this.” But I kept I kept running, running around his rock just to mock the bird. “You think yourself immortal,” he said, “and you doubtless feel the rush of energy and power, but you’ll get hurt, and even you know this.” “I flaunt my life,” I said, “because I enjoy it – feeling the wind howling abouKafka the Raven
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Smurfs don't even have reproductive organs under those little white pants
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Smurfs don't even have reproductive organs under those little white pants
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Smurfs don't even have reproductive organs under those little white pants
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