A postcard. Neat handwriting fills the rectangle.
Half my days I cannot bear not to touch you. The rest of the time I feel it doesn’t matter if I ever see you again. It isn’t the morality, it is how much you can bear.
No date, no name attached.
the part of theology concerned with death, judgment, and the final destiny of the soul and of humankind
The eternally deferred eschatologies of the left are consigned to the white trash-can of the future and leave a present tense with synthetic possibilities