 | | What I said at the end last time, about how my friend K. never showed up at the bar, wasn’t exactly true. He did show up, disheveled and unshaven, his black hair long and a little greasy and almost curling, his eyes hollow and out-of-the past like one of those haunting Civil War photos of men in their tents between battles, hungry-looking, wane, lean, close to death.
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|  | | The first in a series of liberated-book-jacket-set-to-music videos, this is Haruki Murakami's IQ84 and "Angels Sing," driving down Livernois Avenue in Detroit, December 13, 2011.
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|  | | A sense of outsideness. Buildings turned inside out on 9-11, and people outside in the streets of Manhattan. The mind, outside of itself with disbelief. The brutal and temporary restoration of the natural world in the middle of one of the world’s largest cities.
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|  | | My life, in those days, was to be defined by three female poets: Dana Levin, Olena Kalytiak Davis, and Brigit Pegeen Kelly. Where lies the fault in that? Could I be blamed for seeing darkness in everything? Or for feeling, at some point of no return, that it was not I who had chosen them, but rather they who had chosen me?
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 | | Mark Perry, the founder of one of the earliest punk fanzines Sniffin' Glue, has said, “Although [punk] was entirely connected to the hippy politics, it was entirely the natural progression of hippies' 'anti-establishmentism,' I think. You couldn't wear bells and flowers to freak the powers out anymore and there was a perfectly logical line from the San Francisco hippies to the London punks."
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|  | | I, Bronson didn’t see the note—hand scrawled in red ink on one of my hospital discharge papers—until a few days later, after I had settled back into my apartment. I had been asked (yet again) by my agency to provide documentation of such-and-such a nature about my condition, treatment and release.
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Nicholas Rombes