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[...] An old man walked by and, seeing the look on our faces, cried, "AH! AMOR!" Later, you took me to the Mojave Desert, full of ocotillo and sage, where the dunes migrate in the wind and sunrises are a purple that is also orange, and hiked me to the highest spine of hte tallest dune.

[...] Americans' unwillingness to prioritize how we deal with the dead (or our supposition that the story, or the parts of it that matter, stop with the heartbeat) may constitute a failure of moral imagination, but it absolutely fails to imagine the way the living and the dead remain connected, no …

People had once been buried in charnel houses or tombs where all bones were mixed together; now everyone had "his or her own little box for his or her own little personal decay"

I once had a disagreement with a boyfriend about the details of this process. The dispute was more semantic than factual. He described organisms like Pando this way: aspen trees "share their roots" they reach out underground and clasp onto one another as if holding hands. They survive collaborative…

The news is only vaguely less eschatological