Time had eroded all of the silly parts: hair and skin and muscle and youth. It left behind a brittle skeleton walking on a razor’s edge.
I’m in an empty convention center bathroom, staring down at the rows of tiny square tiles, wondering if I’ll see my lunch again.
I wanted to use my hands to practice my art.
Is our interpretation of prior actions an accurate assessment of the past? Or is it a cognitive trap, an illusion created by a minefield of biases?
Is the social construct of medical negligence psychologically sound? Or are we supporting judicial voodoo?
Is our judgement of prior events an accurate assessment of the past? Or is it a cognitive trap, an illusion created by a minefield of biases?
“But seriously, what do you do all week?”
Those who inject fentanyl are not magically conjured by rubbing a DVD box set of The Wire.
For me, it was an accidental discovery, like penicillin or Silly Putty.
You’ve never actually seen the world. But you already knew that…