Emily Gorcenski

I shoveled the neighbor's walk in the snow and salted it so he didn't slip on the ice and could receive his mail. He's an old man. One of the few black men left living in this neighborhood that was theirs once. He sent me a letter. It went all the way to Richmond to come to my door. He's the last man with dignity.

In the letter, he told me he has a new toy, a laptop, which makes him happy because he's a big lover of history and he can go online and read about it. and I weep for this last dignified man who proudly wears a cap honoring his service, because this is the era of synthesis and generation and revision and content, content, content, and inverifiability and manipulation. This is the pseudo-scene.

In the letter, he told me he has a new toy, a laptop, which makes him happy because he's a big lover of history and he can go online and read about it. and I weep for this last dignified man who proudly wears a cap honoring his service, because this is the era of synthesis and generation and revision and content, content, content, and inverifiability and manipulation. This is the pseudo-scene.

In the letter, he told me he has a new toy, a laptop, which makes him happy because he's a big lover of history and he can go online and read about it. and I weep for this last dignified man who proudly wears a cap honoring his service, because this is the era of synthesis and generation and revision and content, content, content, and inverifiability and manipulation. This is the pseudo-scene.

I bought a bottle of wine from a centuries-old vineyard destroyed in a devastating flood. An unsellable bottle in the retail market, a fundraiser souvenir, I kept it as a memento mori of our changing world, a mud-covered reminder of how we all must work little by little to give the world forward. It broke when I tried to move it home on my 72nd flight of the year.

I bought a bottle of wine from a centuries-old vineyard destroyed in a devastating flood. An unsellable bottle in the retail market, a fundraiser souvenir, I kept it as a memento mori of our changing world, a mud-covered reminder of how we all must work little by little to give the world forward. It broke when I tried to move it home on my 72nd flight of the year.

I bought a bottle of wine from a centuries-old vineyard destroyed in a devastating flood. An unsellable bottle in the retail market, a fundraiser souvenir, I kept it as a memento mori of our changing world, a mud-covered reminder of how we all must work little by little to give the world forward. It broke when I tried to move it home on my 72nd flight of the year.

It is the decade of hypocrisy, even for those who can see hypocrisy. They made me a vice president, and with every title change, I moved farther from God, a God I never believed in. I was raised in New England towns named for biblical places by people who thought working the rocky soil brought them closer to God. The only holy men left are those in the fields.

It is the decade of hypocrisy, even for those who can see hypocrisy. They made me a vice president, and with every title change, I moved farther from God, a God I never believed in. I was raised in New England towns named for biblical places by people who thought working the rocky soil brought them closer to God. The only holy men left are those in the fields.

It is the decade of hypocrisy, even for those who can see hypocrisy. They made me a vice president, and with every title change, I moved farther from God, a God I never believed in. I was raised in New England towns named for biblical places by people who thought working the rocky soil brought them closer to God. The only holy men left are those in the fields.

Basra and Lebanon and Gilead and Hebron. The people who named those towns committed a genocide to name them. And 400 years later, in their namesakes, the same. It is the epoch of cadavering. It is the night of bonfires and feuilles. The twilight of stories that dared and poems and albums.

Basra and Lebanon and Gilead and Hebron. The people who named those towns committed a genocide to name them. And 400 years later, in their namesakes, the same. It is the epoch of cadavering. It is the night of bonfires and feuilles. The twilight of stories that dared and poems and albums.

Basra and Lebanon and Gilead and Hebron. The people who named those towns committed a genocide to name them. And 400 years later, in their namesakes, the same. It is the epoch of cadavering. It is the night of bonfires and feuilles. The twilight of stories that dared and poems and albums.

And I tried to sell a book, and I learned that there's only interest in a book when you put yourself into it to be consumed. Words are calories measured in the amount of heat they give a flame.

And I tried to sell a book, and I learned that there's only interest in a book when you put yourself into it to be consumed. Words are calories measured in the amount of heat they give a flame.

And I tried to sell a book, and I learned that there's only interest in a book when you put yourself into it to be consumed. Words are calories measured in the amount of heat they give a flame.

I walked over the Westminster Bridge one night with a journalist who told me that they can't publish two good stories at a time, because if one goes viral, it punishes the other, the arcane footfalls of the algorithm dance. It is the sunset of craft and skills handed down and heritage.

I walked over the Westminster Bridge one night with a journalist who told me that they can't publish two good stories at a time, because if one goes viral, it punishes the other, the arcane footfalls of the algorithm dance. It is the sunset of craft and skills handed down and heritage.

I walked over the Westminster Bridge one night with a journalist who told me that they can't publish two good stories at a time, because if one goes viral, it punishes the other, the arcane footfalls of the algorithm dance. It is the sunset of craft and skills handed down and heritage.

The waxing of a crass and pandering moon, of pantomime, a frictionless night, a night where nothing dared, nothing gained, a night of shutters and locks. These are the dark ages, ages of embarrassing the future. There is a shame here that penance cannot satisfy.