Papa and I are walking down the wide, frozen Leninskiy Prospekt. It’s my favourite part of Leningrad. I’m ten years old and I’ve seen the English Golden Peacock clock at the Hermitage a hundred times, thrilled to those mechanized peacock wings and dancing twenty-carat mushrooms that every four…
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‘The anglophone world, we have to infer, has run out of words for its own feelings.’
Daisy Hildyard on the wisdom of scarecrows.
‘What is the read receipt for?’
Lillian Fishman on texting, power and the ethics of leaving a friend on read.
‘Like pretty much everyone who uses the internet, I have seen many terrible things that I did not search for and that I cannot unsee.’
Rosanna McLaughlin on what the internet thinks she wants.
‘I have a pathological addiction to the internet, which I indulge with the excuse of making art. It rarely translates to anything good and mostly leaves me overstimulated and afraid.’
Paul Dalla Rosa on excess and the internet.
‘rumors of bees on speedwell, / no oxidative stress just / effortless pollination’
Two poems by Sylvia Legris.
‘I can’t even afford to have thoughts on London, much less live or visit there.’
‘I am fourteen years old and this is the only time I have ever successfully driven a car in my entire life.’
Americans, speaking of foreign lands, often say, 'It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.'
‘Today, I’ve made a major decision: I am never going to die.’
‘Fully clothed, we looked like your average young Brooklyn couple, second-rate hipsters in retro garb’.
‘The jungle was all stillness, time kept only by the markings of his breath.’
