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In the end, here’s how bad it got: I used a corner of the desk.

What’s death like?

You’re briefly unlimited.

I sailed right out through the roof.

And hovered above it, looking down. [...] killers all, all bad, I guess, although, in that instant, I saw it differently. At birth, they’d be…

Afterward, our protestations of love poured forth simultaneously, linguistically complex and metaphorically rich: I daresay we had become poets. We were allowed to lie there, limbs intermingled, for nearly an hour. It was bliss. It was perfection. It was that impossible thing: happiness that does n…

If you want the privilege of competing in a team sport, Scout, show us that you can live within our perfectly reasonable system of directives designed to benefit you.

For the very end of myths is to immobilize the world: they must suggest and mimic a universal order which has fixated once and for all the hierarchy of possessions. Thus, every day and everywhere, man is stopped by myths, referred by them to this motionless prototype which lives in his place, stifl…

The petit bourgeois is a man unable to imagine the Other. [...] This is because the Other is a scandal who threatens the petit bourgeois's essence.