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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