“John Lennon is singing I’m So Tired. / I know you’re tired. As you burn in this Brooklyn kitchen,”
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“John Lennon is singing I’m So Tired. / I know you’re tired. As you burn in this Brooklyn kitchen,”
On nights that I can't sleep, I feel sorry for my eggs. I worry that they're suffering in their own snow country of liquid nitrogen. I know such concerns are beyond ridiculous. After all, my eggs are not tiny, microscopic people. They aren't even embryos.
by Siena Oristaglio
I recognize the bold colors and simple, graphic drawing style. A hot pink bonfire radiates from the base of what appears to be a vintage wooden paper cutter. The object hangs on the wall across the room from me, its broad handle jutting into the space.
