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


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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: