Like Boccaccio’s idle rich, we tell ourselves stories
to avoid admitting we can’t
Sign up for a digital subscription and continue reading all new issues, plus our entire archives, for just $1.50/month.
Already a subscriber? Sign in
After you left, I put on the Pixies, lit a cigarette and looked out at the rain on the slate rooftops of Lazio, grey, riddled with satellites and slanted, orange ...
To grieve an American grief a delicate feeling: from afar wistful and brief To grow soft on the milk ...
I retrofitted a shelter. Burned driftwood. Drove a gash across the country, slept in the car, dreaming, of you. I was in love and erasing the ...
