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Academic Life
Training is closed. Vote counts are final.
I am the belt that conveys delight the soft digestion of ink into honey sugar baby me, press my eyes closed and get me to listen
In the bustling corridor, under the glare of fluorescent, the quotes are worn anchors on warm wood. I finish a paragraph, crossword puzzles of ideas. Literature? In this fluorescent sky, no more than a homework we check off: identity, form, legitimacy. I down a coffee, the stomach remembers a last decade empty of punctuation. Back to my desk, I arrange these books like fragile roofs over dreams, take out the pen as one would a less dull knife. Here, every phrase is a small suicide attempt.