an orange chesterfield

o little town of bethlehem, how still we see thee lie 
above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by 
yet in they dark streets shineth, the everlasting light 
the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight. 

we are the first generation bombarded with so many stories from so many authorities, none of which are our own. the parable of the postmodern mind is the person surrounded by a media center: three television screens in front of them giving three sets of stories; fax machines bringing in other stories; newspapers providing still more stories. in a sense, we are saturated with stories; we’re saturated with points of view. but the effect of being bombarded with all of these points of view is that we don’t have a point of view and we don’t have a story. we lose the continuity of our experiences; we become people who are written on from the outside. sam keen 

“i love myself when i’m laughing”

z.n hurston

madagascar vanilla red tea.