2. Pencils manufactured at H. D. Thoreau’s father’s pencil factory: from what was made he made more and less in a wood called Walden.
3. Is that Borges or am I, and how is it everyone around me blurs while I, singular, and he apart are stilled?
4. I imagine no less a disaster when I’m writing than being covered in a web of bones, a link here tapped across my knuckles, a window opening on the screen looking out over nothings.
6. Collections of things like errata, the leading between lines having fallen off the press like tombstones.
7. Everyone has a swimming pool inside them, but we don’t like to show them to other people.
8. Even a frying pan means something: this one means a death in the family sometime in the next 3 months.
9. I am the sum of my sources; I am my connectome.
10. Pictures we post memorialize ephemera, make monuments of the plastic , cauterize the grand narratives that whisper in our ears that we aren’t doing it right.
