The wires in my brain seem to be configured by some elaborate practical joke. There are either way too many or too few connecting this input to the corresponding cortex, or they are just connected to the wrong places. It’s
My family has a thing for knives. It all started when my Aunt chased her sister down the street with a butcher’s knife, a natural reaction to newspaper theft. Her third grade teacher sent her home with a newspaper with
They’re out there, in the brushstrokes of the original, museum-quality painting hanging in your favorite hole-in-the-wall pub, or the Louvre, or the kaleidoscopic mural painted on the shuttered, colorless foundry.