Those who stay away from the mall on principle are only confessing to the fact that, were they in its belly, they’d be powerless to resist.
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We talk about a car crash, the president, how long it’s been since we last talked.
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Hamlet: “I could be bound in a nutshell and think myself the king of an infinite space, if it were not that I have bad dreams.” I feel the same about the apartment.
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People love taking photographs of photographs they’ve seen.
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A friend once confided in me that she found it impossible to journal anymore, as she always imagined an invisible reader hanging over her shoulder. She couldn’t shake the self-awareness of performance, even when writing alone in her room.
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I have measured my life in kisses and shits.
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A camera flattens a soul for eternal explication.
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As the years go by, and more books are read, we become ever more eloquent critics of a world immune to change.
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Printed on the side of a fascist-era Italian building: I need to win, but more than that, I need to fight.
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I have often been oppressed by an internal demand for metaphor, for the reduction of my experience to its suggestive essence, an image whose details mark the vast expanse the way the arrows on a compass point to nothing in particular yet somehow contain the entire possibility of terrestrial movement.
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The camera has turned the world into a studio. Landscapes are no longer environments, but backdrops. The sun is no longer a source of life, but only light.
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Every night feels like it’s my first on this earth. I lay down and look at the ceiling without any plan. I don’t know what to do, having never been present when I actually fall asleep. It takes me without warning from the reality I know, this world of paper and coffee and tears. And I never have time to map my escape. To leave tomorrow’s self a clue.