Having seen ice

Ghosts! Frightful things! Of course, they’re not real.

You were as pale as one and I as nonexistent, floating so far out that my feelings were beige bits on the ground. I was a stranger and a strange collector. The things I kept soared inside me. 

This is surely how the Internet came to be, borne of the wishful muteness of the voyuers, the dreamers, those whose minds are so frightfully alive that their teeth clatter at the heart’s clutch. 

She who denies her own desire—

There’s only one enemy. It creeps on doubt’s slippery back. It feeds on forgotten breaths and whispers a single syllable out its tar and resin mouth. 

Worth fighting. There is a persona now, one who could be mistaken for uncaring. Strengthened by solitude and death laid plain. An offshoot of the white flash of steel that hardens a body whole, that dares the extension of a single, electrified finger. The creator. 

A new way to hide the palest pink heart. 

I saw you at the top of subway stairs. I’d come to the statue of naked children, heads thrown back in ecstasy. I was a moment too late. 

Doing anything nice would be impossible, and doing the necessities would be nasty.

Ours is a recap culture (please, tell me how it was as if I can’t discern! Or give me an excuse to linger). But cleverness of the concept aside, Tom Scocca’s weather reviews for The Awl are lovely.