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She swore, pan soaping. I’m guessing brown bat, crow asunder le shawl-shaped collar. A needed house pith we sold gluttons. Her smell a discordant riddle, glyph of State bafflement. Sand lures all spines, heads, had drifters (bad) in charge not of ribbon that fell over her instep. She (bad) had naught self, a goner, biting paste, pen-shoulder, enveloped a thought. She had not herself to write to. She busted lure in kelp, booked her shelf, and in the mirror picked up a boy-look, as when, dreaming between the lines, there were moose on her geese. She belonged au travail or “No, go back!” to re-augment. He, daunted, a lie, but she also chanted, “I’m a terrorist!”
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In his new book, philosopher William MacAskill implies that humanity’s long-term survival matters more than preventing short-term suffering and death. His arguments are shaky.
In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.