One morning, when our tea kettle could no longer whistle, we took our car out to Lanesboro, eyes still sticky with sleep, to an old diner, unfamiliar then, where a man sitting at the counter, face sun-spotted and forgotten, slumped over a cold cup of coffee, his body, seemingly immovable, turned towards us with movement […]

I speak of ghosts. I speak of death easier
said than seen.

I spent an entire year asking: how will I go on without you?

This is what the coloured glass dreams.

let’s order chinese people around / tonight

it’s a war thing.