The standard explanations for why things have happened this year have turned out to be as useless as the most far-out conspiracy theories.
I don’t have a title sitting in the car. There is anonymity in that moment, a complete lack of pressure. I’m just the driver, caught in a free, smooth space between eddies.
When I finally managed to get out of bed and return to my life, I was determined to be an expert on how to grieve. I was going to fuck grief up so hard.
In the aftermath of a video game, I find myself ready to emerge into 2020 afresh, anew, and aglow from a screen of pixels and a well-rested body crusted with mineral.
The days go so fast, you have to steal the nights, and when all the nights slip away, that’s it. I’m not ready.
These people, these murder victims—the only thing separating their fate and mine is a thin hair of the intangible.
A dog could serve as another guard against the depression that I finally couldn’t ignore.
The protests wound their way into the fabric of our days. Political struggle emerged naturally and sustained itself naturally.
The author of Who Put This Song On? on emo, mental health, and the Obama years.
The author of The Man Who Saw Everything on modernist structure, novelistic characters, and David Lynch.
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