She haunts the frequencies now, compressed into pixels that bear no resemblance to her weight against my ribs. One thousand miles collapse into glass, yet expand infinite when I press my palm to the screen at three am, willing warmth from cold circuitry.
There is something deeply, stubbornly human about the need to believe. Not necessarily in truth or proof, but in comfort. Religion, in that sense, is less about God and more about us.
You're a masterpiece sculpted by cosmic sarcasm, blessed by existence's eternal practical joke, crowned victor in a competition nobody understood whilst everyone else drowned in biological obscurity.
Survival is not his aim. He wishes dispersion, atomisation, the kind of ending that leaves nothing for mourners to gather around.
A letter to Benjamin Netanyahu and his team. There's a wall in an ancient city. They called it the wailing wall. It's made of stones. People still press their foreheads to it, rock in silence, leaving