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Go out with your friends. Drink. Play billiards. Smoke a joint. Smoke many joints. In your newfound exuberance try ecstasy, acid, shrooms, whatever you can. What’s the harm?
February is when jacarandas bloom in Bangalore, carpeting the edges of streets purple like an extravagance of confetti.
They didn’t let me see the body. My father dragged the crackling blue plastic through early November snow. My stomach knotted.
Since he’d met her three weeks ago, each day was brightened by the sustained fantasy of making love to her…..
We will give the name chronotope (literally ‘time space’) to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature.
“I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. —Sylvia Plath, “Morning Song”
Light reflects and refracts along the mirrorball, strawberry laserbeams spilling into a smoke-machine sea, and as one fleshbug crests the next wave, our eyes fix….
“I’m not an actress. Hello out there—” rapping my knuckles on my head “—anybody listening? I dropped out of acting school. Can you hear me?”
Feeling her press her body up against mine is better than lying on the kitchen floor alone.
“We can do whatever we want,” she says. “And come on, someone needs to teach those fuckers that what they did is wrong.”
During Noche Buena, Doña Teresa recounted the time Alvaro’s corpse fell on her. Don Alvaro was a South American stereotype: brushed mustache, Roman Catholic, intolerant.
Looking through the scratchy branches of the winter trees, Julie is only able to picture the desolation of the world.
I would say that threat and upheaval are the difference between leaving and fleeing. I was somewhere in between; restless and quiet at the same time.