A humanist, shackled by BSE: I don’t have time to read Proust. I’m searching for my own lost time.
Overheard on a bus
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Allen’s New Kettle
“For a moment, Allen just stared at the kettle. The room felt smaller, like the air had thickened. He thought of Ryan, of work, of losing the job, and the apartment, and everything else, and then looked back at the kettle’s bright little screen, now a meadow in the wind, calm, and endless.”
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Nass Recommends: Eddington (2025)
Do you ever feel like a plastic bag? A sheriff walks into a party for a noise complaint, without a word or a mask. As he reaches the party’s speaker setup, the music cuts out with a thump. “What’re you doing? Not here on rape charges? Didn’t really pan out for you did…
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Queerness, Creativity, and Community – Zine Making Night with Passionfruit Magazine
Zines are self-published magazines crafted from conjoining pages of paper into a miniature booklet, embellished with all sorts of mixed media throughout their pages. Magazine cutouts, paragraphs pulled from old books, paint, writing and/or stickers; whatever your heart desires, as long as it can be glued onto a page, it belongs in a zine. It’s…
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Kaleidoscope of an Ending
“My perception of time is distinctly geometric: I trace the progression of years in counterclockwise circles that thicken like layers of pencil. I wish I could distinguish between them.”
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Everything will be okay: Full Design
Pick up a physical copy around campus, or view the full design here!
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Thoughts from my time sitting on the window sill of a castle in the Czech countryside
Is it better to not understand than to be misunderstood?
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Because We Were Girls Together
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? (from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock) Because We Were Girls Together (a golden shovel) …
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No machine
In lieu of goodbye I send a tiny house in the mail, flimsy porcelain talisman a weak barricade. Like Joni I become cellophane, no personal defenses, the wrapper on a pack of cigarettes, the dirt on the road of your espresso cup — in sand in bone you will learn to drink it. I let…
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Liquidation
“That could be anyone, I think. The beach, the cliffs, the moon, just something with a voice that sounds like Margaret. The ocean could have picked up her accent and dissolved it, carried what I know as Margaret—black hair, sports bra, raspy voice—and released its latent sound into the cold wind, back to me. A…
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houston texas
after a letter about a friend houston is warm and smooth and deep and dark and red. It is the feeling of holding a mug in two hands, of wrapping my hands around a lover’s lower rib cage and knowing this is…
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