At this point, I was pretending to do coke, dramatically rendered little bumps, because parts of me ached and swole and it wasn’t as easy to take in anymore. All my cavities were fighting me. I was so stupid at this time.
When I was her age, I didn’t believe I belonged in the world. I didn’t believe I deserved anything good. If I could time travel to meet that teenaged version of myself I would tell him: Life is shitty right now. You have to live through it anyway. See you in a while.
Seeing forever didn’t quell my agitation. It was hard not to think about flames and smoke, to imagine the feeling of being hopelessly far from the street below, and then to feel all the dimensions of the room you’re in give way at once, and for what—to hold down a job, to look out over the Hudson? It wasn’t a good death. I watched the planes banking northeast out of Newark, or crossing midtown on their way into LaGuardia, as if my vigilance would do a damn thing for me or for anyone.
Thirteen days after Michael passed away, the towers came down. Clouds, plumes of smoke. That night, invoices and letterheads blanketed the streets. I read by candlelight the names that appeared on each. Childhood, as I knew it, ceased.
The following essay is in reference to “We All Do What We Can,” the new “short story + music” track released today by E.A. Aymar and DJ Alkimist. It’s hard […]
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Terrorism is a hell of a thing. It’s a hell of a thing because it works so well. Because fear is powerful. Because we are so perceptibly mortal.
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