Every slip slender slope of grass, stain glassed with red and white and pink, lifted to the darkening landscape, toasting the encroaching and living planet. We are the children of some phenomenon, tilting away from the sun; soon to cinders, and then on to the harder stuff . . .
| | | the boy’s head had been scooped clean and by scooped-clean they meant lunch meat all of it his head was emptied of the cold cuts and left to soften bread in the juices | | | this occurred in the shadow of the cave he slipped down into down from the craggy side of the slope struggling tumbling into a canyon from the sides called copywriters . . .
Red Bull is a publishing empire that also happens to sell a beverage . . .
Justin Rice worked for years as a journalist in and around Boston, struggling to get noticed by the Sports section. In 2009, his success came from an unlikely place: a 17-year-old former tomboy who made team captain within her first year on the JV football team.
There'll be a day, if one recent Wi-Fi startup has its way, when you switch on your tablet or laptop and the wireless Internet access you need is just there. Automatically, everywhere, every time. You won't think about it. You won't search for elusive hotspots. You'll just get to browsing, and the days when passwords or daily- or monthly-pass payments stood in the way of productivity are no more — they'll vanish, much like the brick-and-mortar video store.
Ever watch one of those juice infomercials that feature some self-created celebrity whirring blueberries in a blender? And did you believe, as they scraped all that fruit into a shoot, that this speaker was actually an authority on their subject? Everyone and everything is a brand, especially online. With that truism, however, comes this attendant and dubious proposition: Anyone with some knowledge and a point of view can present themselves as a thought leader to promote whatever brand they'd like to sell.
how to work magic with weekdays:
1. earn the privilege of white
2. make the meat glisten green
on your plates.
(the book divides “worry” from “and
so on.” the town swims with
bacterial foes.) . . .
THE BICYCLE REVIEW
I worry that love like this is love on loan,
like the lobster baskets fill, but then the sea someday leaves empty . . .
THE ADIRONDACK REVIEW
Eventually the hole closed and the pain began to stop. Not right away, not quickly, but the hole did close. When it did, it left a puckered pale scar—a kind of callous in the tissue of her memory. She could still hear, on the inside, on the other side, something like screaming . . .