Foolishly he had opened his eyes, and that was the time. Under four hours. He’d never get back. The straight-sided digits floated, gloated, lime green in the dark. That was tomorrow shot. Meanwhile Ella snored on beside him, oblivious.
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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.
‘All you needed for the modern world was to know how to work a remote control.’
‘The thing about a circular walk is that you end up where you started.’
‘He's the only person in the world who listens to me and does what I tell him (thought Zoe).’
‘There had been an unbelievable amount of talk about the weather, not to mention the end of the world and so on’.
‘After the first time they had sex, Marianne stayed the night in his house.’ New fiction from Sally Rooney.
