to see the color of the flame.
And it burned out the whole spectrum
as if you were everything.
Mine just burned gold,
a normal flame.
|—||Brand New, “Good Man”|
|—||Kurt Vonnegut, “Slaughterhouse-Five”|
The sterilized pocket of small city streets
Fits neatly inside a two sheriff seat.
There’s a girl that drives through
and smiles at me
Her eyes are alive and learning to see.
Our distance grows with miles and lanes
until watching the clock is all that remains.
And older she gets with each new pass
Showing symptoms of sadness and unhappiness
It’s wisdom she gains but rubber she burns
the road is unpaved but she knows all the turns.
I normally go into my conversations with a set of proven questions to ask, that I find will elicit a wide variety of anecdotes from people’s lives: happiest moment, saddest moment, things like that. But with people fleeing war, it is absolutely impossible to discuss anything beyond the present moment. Their circumstances are so overpowering, there is absolutely zero room in their minds for any other thoughts. The conversation immediately stalls, because any topic of conversation beyond their present despair seems grossly inappropriate. You realize that without physical security, no other layers of the human experience can exist. “All day they do is cry for home,” she told me. (Dohuk, Iraq)
|—||David Foster Wallace, ‘Backbone’|
"If you could give one piece of advice to a large group of people, what would it be?"
"Change your mind about something significant every day."
I believe in Malcomb