This small thing that feeds me,
it's quicksilver,
it puffs away.
I slip on as well,
Everyone just slips on,
crumpled. We give up.
Our food gives up on us,
it's a spat,
the knots of ego and exhaustion.
The gutter of love.
As anyone who's ever ridden the Metro in Boston knows, there's a sign on the wall along the blue line route that reads, "Outbound to Wonderland." Must be one helluva train, I thought to myself when I saw it. In that spirit of exploration, this is a blog of short essays on art, literature, law, economics, music, history, international relations, science...and everything else, too.