I am hopelessly optimistic, but it takes work.
It wasn’t “just a jacket.”
With their awkward syntax and frequent misspellings, the president’s tweets aren’t too far from the language of spam.
The oppressor assumes the role of the oppressed.
I live in a state in the heart of the heart of the country.
Twitter, in the hands of Trump and the Republicans, is a way of postulating speculative fictions, — the worries and woes of possible future perfects.
Citizens plug cords into their forearms, lie back, and await the word of the day.
It doesn’t really matter, because it can’t.
The waves were slow, but persistent, giving us ample time to prepare for extinction.
In its attempts to aestheticize mass destruction and memorialize the aftermath, Central Command delivers a clunky outtake of our near-nuclear demise.
It was time for Donald to go to the temple.
If this kind of wacko fear-mongering is part of the new American norm, I think the best thing art can do is spook us out of this existence.