Ideology has shaped the very sofa on which I sit.
The horse stares at its captor, barely remembering the free kicks of youth.
When I try to portray to myself my heart's desire, nothing happens.
Nothing is more cheerful than talking about our friends' shortcomings.
The tranquility of my room partakes too much of Forest Lawn.
Cheap thrill: moral outrage revels in its own innocence and in the guilt of the wicked Others.