like crystals you touched the glass and it broke your leaves at full bloom but dust covers the path forward why does your heart race leave mine cold i want to talk to you about it about how the rose lost its
In “Digital Witness,” the first single of St. Vincent’s latest album, Annie Clark laments over a throbbing array of guitars: “What’s the point of even sleeping? / If I can’t show it, you can’t see me. / What’s the point of doing
Our generation has become infamously known as the “Internet Generation.” Although we tend to get a negative reputation for our tech-savvy ways, a lot of good has come out of it too. One example is that of the platform the Internet has
When reading Lydia Bailey’s September 2013 essay “My summer at Abercrombie & Fitch” I found myself somehow simultaneously engrossed, laughing nervously and wishing I could meet this mystery writer who somehow was so similar to me. As someone who has also experienced
I don’t often watch movies when they are in distribution, but this summer I managed to catch “The Wolf of Wall Street” with some friends. I had heard about the controversy surrounding the film; namely, that Scorsese had included a record number of
My mama always told me “never immortalize your tits.” She used to be a nude model back at the university when she was young, and now every time she goes to work in the art department archives, she has to pass down
Whether or not they don’t, he remains a solid fantasy option that will score you points week-in and week out. He emphasized need to start now of chemistry among teammates in order to try to get positive results. Chicago at Minnesota –
“Fifty-four! Ok, that’s not ninety, but still, that’s respectable,” Jane* declares, setting down the napkin on which she’s written down the names of every single person she’d kissed at Swarthmore. We’re having brunch in Sharples on a Sunday morning towards the end
The usual rap on post-World War II city planners is that they ruined our cities with their highways and shopping malls, and even now we are not entirely done recovering from the damage they did. At least in my experience, this view
Jonathan Franzen’s reception at Swarthmore last spring was lukewarm. He spoke fatalistically of the social impact of fiction and disavowed the readings of his books that would point to any social messages. When he admitted that the one explicit goal of his
The glass separating the pizza guys from the rest of the restaurant lent their work an aspect of performance, which they mostly seemed to embrace. I could remember being small and laughing on a long-legged counter stool as they tossed spinning rounds