Consider this my letter of resignation. I’m retiring. Look, I’ve been doing this thankless job of writing fiction for a few years now. Doesn’t matter how many. Five, maybe. But like I said, doesn’t matter.
If you spent a childhood wishing each birthday for a daemon of your own and still, to this day, associate the aurora borealis and the I Ching with Dust, this month’s guide to readerly fashion is for you.
Apparently, our problem is that we are not “people who have suffered.” And it’s true that, despite the mild irritations of a bombed-out economy and dizzying unemployment rates and sky-high student debt and a stagnant government and the threat of climate change, we’re doing okay.