Look closely, and all things seem to have been touched by someone’s pain—all things optical, chemical, mechanical. Everything blossoms in destruction, everything is a deathly flower.
Fast-paced political publishing still exists, often a display of the power and potential that lies in thinking big and publishing “small.”
This delight in difference is what black religion in the post-Trump still-neoliberal age, which is another way to say black religion in the age of Thomas Jefferson, in the age of racial capitalism, antiblack racism, and settler colonialism, needs to rediscover.
The appeal to love as a revelatory force is at once a familiar rhetorical strategy for galvanizing peninsular unification platforms and a basic generative paradigm for imagining other worlds emotionally.
Without any dogmatic adherence to the collection of conspiracies, QAnon followers often choose which of the individual narratives to follow within the larger collection, a build-your-own history.
The Gaddis I like best to think of is a God-haunted aristocrat. Thrown pearl-clutching into a fallen world, he gathers himself and understands it as his task to recognize what instances of the eternal still obtain, among things melted into air.