Shivers

This poem in The New Yorker made me think of dark, delicious things:

Rituals

Washing your hands, trying the lock,

burning a hundred head of cattle

not to eat, washing your hands

again, trying the lock again,

talking forever to yourself,

saying the sorts of things the god

least can understand, who finally

figures this must be for me.

— Jeff Dolven

On a related note, there are 4 ads in this week’s TNY for fancy psych hospitals.  Glad to see they’re keeping the percentage up.

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