bled

What can I say? That if I ever wished you ill, I would will now that a thousand vindictive angels would fall with their blazing swords upon me. I always thought that you were braver than I am, with an intuitive, innate sense of bravery that I can only deliberate upon. And I see you being borne away now by a flood of numbers and arithmetic, with percentiles and scores, on a raft knitted of sheets of grid paper. Your hair spans the surface like Ophelia, and soon you will drink forgetfulness. If the world was made for geniuses like you. I see in your bosom a singular struggle between what is and what ought to be, between the system of survival

For a day, it was your constant presence. I don't think I've giggled so much in a long time. Or eaten quite so much. You had written me such a long and heartfelt letter when I left you almost exactly four years ago. Now, you have left your mother in the coastal city and come eastward, to the supposed omphalous of our civilization. Over Serbian pastries and Malaysian foods with names I can't pronounce, we sit in Dundas square and I try to convince you that this is the omphalous of the world. Or, this is the exact midpoint of the line between us. For these four years, I have never ceased to hear your breathing over the telephone line, when yo

I. Now in the White flames of burning flags we found a world worth dying for, yeah We've been battered so hard that we don't feel anymore. > How can he reach you in exile? They walk across a street in the U.S. carrying the stars and stripes. How does the red and yellow robes of your monkhood rise against the field of blood and stars? The new generation tire of peace talks and negotiations. Their palms separate in the sanctuary of temple grounds, and with twisted complexion, set the fire under the frying pan. Are these really your teachings? > This is where your history has taken you. You can take their beating heart in a box and put