end of line.

homo homini lupus est

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Here’s the thing

May 16, 2022May 16, 2022 / April Joy / Leave a comment

Seriously. I’m disturbed that The Cut hasn’t been taking its political fellow travelers to task. Talia Lavin’s shirt in her widely distributed profile photo is an abomination, and at best can only be explained by an affinity for deep dives into the clearance bin at TJ Maxx. She’s definitely not doing any deep dives into … Continue reading Here’s the thing

En robe de parade.

August 17, 2021August 17, 2021 / April Joy / Leave a comment

Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

The Deep Despair/Hope of Holidays Alone

July 4, 2021July 4, 2021 / emily29red / 1 Comment

Emily’s first End of Line post!

Meditations on the consensual hallucination.

June 30, 2021 / April Joy / 1 Comment

Everyone is happy on social media. I know I promised to finish my thought on Kundera, and I will! I promise. I’ve gotten sidetracked by a series of conversations I’ve had on social media, however, as one does. I don’t think I’ve actually finished a thought since I joined Twitter. It’s quite embarrassing for someone … Continue reading Meditations on the consensual hallucination.

In case you were wondering what I’ve been doing lately…

June 29, 2020June 29, 2020 / April Joy / Leave a comment

catching up

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drink me

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the wasteland

“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

the archive

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  • December 2021
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  • June 2021
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  • April 2021
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  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • January 2020
  • July 2019

marina

This form, this face, this life
Living to live in a world of time beyond me; let me
Resign my life for this life, my speech for that unspoken,
The awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships.
What seas what shores what granite islands towards my timbers
And woodthrush calling through the fog
My daughter.

burnt norton

And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.

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