Wednesday, December 14, 2022


Too much excellence. Even the dissenters speak from a small ledge in great style, perfect anonymity, excellent font choice, footnoted hypocrisy acknowledged into more excellence. Official communications dissolve into two, break into four, shift into eight, something into sixteen, and keep shifting, inbox at eighty percent capacity. I still received the updates and marked my tasks done, gave my reactions, and conspired in encrypted messages. Behind every paragraph formatted into Garamond is a passage of someone else’s writing that I took a photo of to show you. I want to give it all away and still believe something else is possible. Generosity has no font, no method other than remaking, other than walking to the edge of the unknowing, even if such a movement isn’t graceful and the appointment was missed. The plea is not to read me, it is to find another way. A room with the others who failed to get it together on time or got preoccupied with whose hair is in the borrowed book, or whose recipe reminds me of when we first met. There’s so much aching generality of the limits we have. How better to body the loss than to try to know you. We come together at the end of the world to finally be, and from there a whole sea expands from our wanting too much, our asking too much, our hunger, our yearning for something other than an internship and an advisor. We’re here for the secret book club where we go to read each other. It is to linger, to not linger so long. There are so many others. We need to get back to each other.

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