The girl over there has thin eyebrows and a laptop with a sticker above the glowing fruit that reads, “THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS.” There’s a book on her table. Old. Thick. Dusty blue. At the bottom of the spine, a white sticker, like from a library. She’s typing. Sometimes she stops, as I do, and thinks, and drinks some tea. When she gets cold, she wraps a gray scarf around her neck.
There’s a bit in Anna Karenina where Tolstoy describes someone as having ‘bare shoulders and long gloves.’
There are some parts of London that are actually kind of outside of London, which might best be described as small houses full of stuff.
Sometimes while riding the bus, the screen flashes, ‘The next bus stop is CLOSED,’ and I wonder what strange, wondrous world awaits the people who alight at CLOSED.
A Warholian acceleration of perception.
It’s not even time anymore. It’s like something else.
Happy random pulls from my notebook, readers.