The one thing you have in common:
desperation.

I think about the beach cottage we always rented the first week or two of August. The photograph I took each day, hoping to preserve it all. The older couple we saw every year, who we never saw again. The roadside farm where we bought eggs, vegetables and topnecks. I wonder if the same books are on the shelves. I wonder if it has crumbled into the sea.

The search for truth has led to delusion.

You’ve won, we have no fight left, it’s your world, which is nothing, less than nothing, welcome to it.

Don’t elevate the legs. Not with a torso wound.

Their language has been eradicated, but their food remains.

Your prayers were answered, but not in a form you recognized.

Intelligence, inversely proportionate to reliance on jargon.

August in the city when nobody gives a fuck anymore.

What are you looking for?
Just a glimpse.