Mindblown: a blog about philosophy.

You can smell it like a snake, from miles away— this Eden made of benzene, naphthalene and gasoline. The smokestack garden never rests; it works through day and night like any forest does. It turns the blood of earth into the fuel that makes it sing this dusk chorus of whistles, bells, and whooshing flame.

Absconded, in the dead of the heat just two nights ago, enamored of darkness, two unremarkable syllables, neither one a word or capable of turning a word

I am writing to tell you what it was like for me the days I sat beside you, holding the phone on speaker

when we no longer live in our bodies do we inhabit the spaces between voices cupped in bedspread folds hands around a match winter kitchen cookbook stains unmarked keys missing teeth tufts of feather and bone?