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It is not surprising that suicide, or individual self-cancellation,
self-annihilation, became a recurrent topic of paradox
We came to, raced past, and let stand a syllogism
and doubled back, which is already metaphorical, I began,
by way of example. To explain what we ran Overnight
on, though it should not have been on us incumbent
to establish that a platform any more is soft-,
not hardware, commonly, it needed to be premised
that sleep and dream are not as wood and ivy.
At the foot of the bed like the crawl of other news
I saw my chart move. Read: a relief of duty
had elicited new liege, to which the brief and I
were something subject, a critical biography. It made
its leathery clap, as of old wattage spooling
inside the helmet of a meter a reader records
at her interval. A workstudy at the humming post,
despite the gist, effervesces in the sound well
roaring beneath the rapids where swiftness was. Atop,
the little boat turning still in the eddy.
An hysteria there,
a sloppy recrimination, contempt stirring devotion, someone
calling an apology into the water. It sinks through,
why such recollection is overcome. I note in the crawl,
This is the shore of the worst thing possible. The rest
of his days like a puff of shale are dispersal of the dustup.
What is the word for a stack of stones used as a marker?
I erased all other texts in my handheld, so that this one
would ever be the oldest, the bottommost. Not pylon, not
mignon, not riprap at switchbacks, commoner to the grave.
Siste viator. I got here as fast as I could.
Plainly the ticker evidenced that program semantics
could retrain somesthesia, shift by shift, and pinpointed
the extrapolation by which we had imported hence
the weakest precondition for closing out of Distant Emil:
even a bath is a banishment provided it tops the ears.
Past pertinence we could not hear the rain of reason
in this business about whether—in pressing record rather
than signaling help—we saved the wrong thing.
Character is both developed and revealed by tests, and all of life is a test.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.