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How would I convey my appreciation with that red light blinking, urging that my time is almost up?How would I rush that unspeakable gratitude into words?This is a poem that began from a passing remark that struck me as simultaneously comforting and mystifying.
I was feeling bored and kind of physically gross, like I needed a shower.
I went to take a picture of the cat and the camera accidentally turned on my face, a contemporary occurrence that, to my horror, happens to me almost daily. As a kid, like many other kids in suburban New Jersey, I went with my family to the local park on the fourth of July to sit in a lake of seated people and watch the explosions.
The wealthy in Ancient Egypt had detailed guides to the afterworld, called books of the dead, inscribed in expensive papyrus in their coffins; if you were poor, you died without instruction, consigned to wander confused forever.
(The formal scheme of Sometimes I think I've fallen prey to a client-server model of consciousness.
Whereas in mourning, the object of loss is clear and can be released by the mourner with time, in melancholia, what has been lost can remain hidden and becomes internalized—"devoured" by the ego, as Freud writes.
Many times I've arrived at the moment of a man entering me and found there two truths: I don't want this; I'm going to have this.
, I became obsessed with how female identity is represented in Victorian England.
Particularly, how female "innocence" is seen through the eyes of male figures—and how that has or has not changed in the last few centuries. Leaving was a fix I'd theretofore regularly administered: schools, jobs, relationships—all quittable in the impulsive instant, provided you can live without care, money, or instruction. I'm a Virgo and I live for a plan, a list, knowing what is and what isn't. As a child, I would write lists imagining what my life would look like: a loving husband, two kids, a house, and maybe a dog.
Like I'm a web server and everything around me is a hit, an ask, a demand. I was thinking His hidden names seem like a metaphor for how love works: you can never really know another person, not completely.Tags: Adult Dating, affair dating, sex dating