So peculiar, irregular and quirky, the little ways we keep ourselves alive—notebooks the size of matchbooks and going to movies alone—it’d be charming, really, if the ways we killed ourselves (and everyone else helped) were not so gigantic, loaded with weight, speed and municipal involvement, like city trains.
Everything good in me survives like one of those rodent mammals from the age of the dinosaurs, darting from one prehistoric fern to another.
God help this rat, good, god give it speed. Give it claws.
No comments:
Post a Comment