J.R. Hamantaschen

So those pills that offered painless relief stayed stored on the shelf, out of the strength of her reach, high atop the altar of platitudes.

So those pills that offered painless relief stayed stored on the shelf, out of the strength of her reach, high atop the altar of platitudes.

– J.R. Hamantaschen –

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Deborah Levy

I can’t stand THE DEPRESSED. It’s like a job. It’s the only thing they work hard at. Oh good my depression is very well today. Oh good today I have another mysterious symptom and I will have another one tomorrow. The DEPRESSED are full of hate and bile and when they are not having panic attacks they are writing poems. What do they want their poems to DO? Their depression in the most VITAL thing about them. Their poems are threats. ALWAYS threats. There is no sensation keener or more active than their pain. They give nothing back except their depression. It’s just another utility. Like electricity and water and gas and democracy. They could not survive without it.

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