'The war was almost over. On the other side of the plain, the enemy artillery base lay silent; no reconnaissance plane had yet appeared on the horizon.'
The sun had not yet risen, but above the grassy plain, the mist was already starting to drift away. The village of Diem–a cluster of shacks along the highway–was emerging from the night.
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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 wanted to see a communist victory, which I presumed to be inevitable. I wanted to see the fall of a city.’
‘When I look at a word, I can see the thing inside it. The ear inside heart.’
‘Love was no longer encoded in recognised behaviours, but became subject to private desires and idiosyncratic needs.’
