and your bones feel like mallets
pounding out a rhythm on your skin
stretched tight over the head of a drum
and you press your hand to the glass
and the blood fills your lungs
and your heart pumps the light
that spills out through your eyes
and you see the buildings swing by in sync
blurred on the edges, swaying, dancing in time
to the rhythm of your life

populism is popular with the ruling class.

there is fire at the bottom of the ocean.

who gets rich when nothing changes?

write a story in which no one speaks because no one can: a decade of silence.

there are more slaves today than at any point in human history.

write a short series of minor stories that directly interogate the reader about their own meaning and/or interpretation. kind of a 'choose your own adventure' of literary subjectivity, but the story does not continue on the page after the direction question to the reader, but rather continues in the mind of the reader based on the individual assumptions/ideas/interpretations provoked by those questions.

how then should we live?

i've seen it wrong so many times, i don't know which way is right.

i wonder if the moon realizes its effect on the sea.