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T. S. Eliot

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people Is only our memory of the moments During which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same Is a useful and convenient social convention Which must sometimes broken. We must also remember That… Continue reading T. S. Eliot

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Terrance Hayes

Sometimes my body is a guitar, a hole waiting in wood, wires trembling to sleep. To identify what you are, to be loved by what you identify, I thought This is how the blood sings into the self. I thought what was hollow in me would be shaped into music. —  Terrance Hayes,  from “Arbor… Continue reading Terrance Hayes

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