The Heart Is a Muscle
It wasn’t a bleeding heart that sent me overseas for those years.
It wasn’t a bleeding heart that sent me overseas for those years.
Sometimes things have outgrown their usefulness, or are proven to be harmful, or you just find a better way.
On good days, I remember that a job is just a job and that sometimes jobs change.
What’s the hotline number for when the word “die” echoes in your brain so blandly that you almost don’t notice it anymore?
I texted my friend with the encyclopedic podcast knowledge to ask why she liked true crime. Instead, she told me why she quit.
Perhaps I am a person who loves the seasons because they help me know that time is truly passing.
The palm and mangrove trees were stripped of their leaves, and much of the vegetation on the island has turned brown.
“Gotta make hay,” we’ll say to each other as we stumble out of bed at six a.m. to milk cows.
Spiracles. What a ridiculous name for the very thing that keeps you alive.
By changing the one visual constant of the first three albums—the swirly-font Taylor Swift—the album immediately tells us that this is going to be a Taylor that sounds different.