The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

Lord, I confess I want the clarity of catastrophe but not the catastrophe. Like everyone else, I want a storm I can dance in. I want an excuse to change my life.

How can I explain the things and things and things I did wrong? I was never any good at telling the difference between what wanted me and what wanted me gone

On the phone, I ask my mother about a memory. Am I mourning that right, I want to know. “Just pretend it didn’t happen. I just say, it didn’t happen,” she says. It happened. Am I saying that right? What happened? Did it happened?

What's the German word for preemptively missing somethhing so much you can't look at it. Literal translation: green green green and I hide my face.

you who wants comfort, who are you? have you been a comfort too? say it with me: it won’t be okay and we can follow the burning shore. there’s nothing more to say. no next time but the broken before.

Q: What is the past tense of “lived”? A: Once, I looked back and purchased vowel after vowel. I devoured the minutes which had already been dripping from my teeth. I smashed the fruit against the bowl and called it “salvage.” I retraced my steps, then retraced the retracing. What could I have done? I’ll say it every night before the day slips into rot: What could I have done?

Dystopia congratulations you were right to be paranoid

Imagine, I can't stop saying. Imagine, I beg, when I should have said, Look: paradise is both a particle and a wave. You don't have to believe in something for it to startle you awake.

how to speak to any one in a history like this. how to tell you. everything will be all right. without inheriting. the family business.

I know I should want to be torn open by the failures of hope, but here's what I want: a tight circle around everyone I love; a stove that doesn't burn.

I have last year's ashes in my throat, stories stuffed so full of morals they bleed sugar.

Among a growing list of promises I can’t make my friends: This weight will tether. You can come back up again. The faithfulness of gravity, of morning sounds. If only you’ll stay.

Every day, a sky is".

Every day, an extinction misfires, and I put it to work.

Mother, you taught me a word from *from* and never *toward.*

Dystopia I liked the old dystopia better;

Sixty-six million years after the last great extinction, six to eight business days before the next one, I whispered Speak to a fucking agent into the hold music to trigger the system into connecting

I will have missed your is.

I *will have missed your is*.

I keep dreaming about showing up late to my own funeral, everyone tapping their feet as I climb into the casket—