Who would have given a damn about me if not for that box?
As punishment for Prometheus’ gift of fire, the gods gave me to men. They gave me to men. I was a poisoned gift. But the importance of a poisoned gift is the venom it bears, not the gift. The box, not Pandora.
She is a young woman in love. She had been a girl, who, at seven, danced with a handsome older cousin at a wedding, looking up at him with steady, curious eyes, wondering at the first blush of an attraction for which she didn’t yet know the name. She came to believe in love, as a boy might believe in heroism: as an occasion for both virtue and adventure.
At 99 years old, Poppa is more scowl than man. Death it seems has forgotten about him, letting him linger and decay far past what can be natural. His life, far past being led, is endured and he swears to … Read More
I told the army that my father was abusing my mother and that I had to stay home to protect her. This girl whose job it was to check out these kinds of things arrived at our apartment. It was … Read More
We spent approximately 30 hours talking about everything from the nature of the universe to the limitations of the human mind. The usual stuff. We sat on the corner of a couch outside a library; the couch was blue. Nothing … Read More