I did feel like I was sort of peering into their brain and trying to pluck out what they thought was the most important part.
I think in the literature that I've read, sight as a bit of a metaphor for knowledge, for awareness, and for identity, is pretty well suffused and embedded into this collective recognition.
I am Iris, I thought. Iris is me, and Iris is in the wrong lane.
Don’t worry, I said, you’re the sea, and it’s impossible for the sea to drown. There’s nothing big enough for you.
The hall closet candles are white, ten inches long, and shaped like penises.
They're a more picturesque version than what they really are, and it's just capturing one singular moment in time.
It’s not a question of good guy bad guy so much as a question of whether these people give each other what they need.
Talk to me. Make me feel male.
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