these mourners finally filed out, their cortege still in loose formation
an ongoing event whose discrete parts and moments, whatever their particular shapes and vicissitudes (vicissitudes! I'd susurrate the word time and again) have run together
the desk. One day, I’d told myself, I’ll need to clean it properly and thoroughly, transform it into a tabula rasa upon which I might compose a great, momentous work. I’d been right: that day was now.
this is so funny
Not the Report per se, but rather its schema, prologomena, what-have-you.
a whole new Order of anthropological experience seemed to burst open and fulgurate before me, its pieces glittering and dancing madly
what a weird word
