The Pilgrim Age

On a mother's jacket, thirteen miles of gravel, and the argument somebody already won on your behalf

On the half second before the reason arrives, the only sin that has to come in costume, and the one part of the machine that can still be moved

On a bowl of granola eaten too slowly, the sage who said no, and the difference between being locked out and being underbuilt.

On the images we love instead of people, the question that answers itself, and the difference between an empty boat and a good hiding place.

On three thousand years of building faster oracles, and the one problem not one of them has solved

On being wanted, the machinery of desire, and the only war a man can win

On a loan, a refrigerator, and the proxy we built so we would never have to want anything directly.

On the two architectures of attention, and the figure who walks quietly through both.

On a nephew, two hundred dollars, and the law that compounds in two directions