The first caveman to duck a mauling was cheered by elegant offspring as he tucked in his guts, non-existent Victorians who were not yet but now could be.
There were many Futurists among the casualties—their manifestoes did not protect them.
The holidays were very, very good to the mixte-in-training known as Cake & Ice Cream.
There are a billion ways to get lost and nearly as many to get found again, but rare are the options for only sort of vaguely keeping one’s self on track in an entirely attractive manner.
I love dinosaurs. I have a lot to say about them, particularly about new research that turned up a logarithm error in the statistical model traditionally used to estimate their body mass.
They’re looking at me like an already-open door greets a sleepwalker in the morning; like evidence of a life secret even from myself.
Today I found out that Carl Sagan thought clouds, under the right circumstances, could become living things. With intelligence. *With intelligence.* Holy shit.
This is the grave of Bohumil Hrabal, who wrote, “Wandering through the streets of Prague, I switched on my X-ray eyes and peered down through transparent pavements into the sewers….”