We don’t want reality. We want the sweet hum of being told we're right.
"A species so desperate to be comforted that it will smash its own compass just to keep walking in circles."
Sentences I wish I'd wrote.
Your writing is never about what it is about.
I should write something one of these days that is just the thing itself. See heads explode, unable to process what's in the piece.
You probably shouldn't do that. Think of the children.
Into my Hemingway phase, I suppose!
"A species so desperate to be comforted that it will smash its own compass just to keep walking in circles."
Sentences I wish I'd wrote.
Your writing is never about what it is about.
I should write something one of these days that is just the thing itself. See heads explode, unable to process what's in the piece.
You probably shouldn't do that. Think of the children.
Into my Hemingway phase, I suppose!