the airy heartbeat of the new New World seems as faraway a thing as a healthy love or a realistic still life. It’s a weightless routine and a dozen thorough laughs. It moves like a dress in a fairytale, and its skin is subtly free. It is dreamt but undone; it is poetic but normal and entirely impossible.
the old New World is an attitude of scarves and pinpricks and an unfeeling lie. a knee-high doghouse in which to lay shivering with expectance. It is the feeling of orange juice on an empty stomach, of reruns of Sylvia. It is I cross my heart and the day will come. It is a rationed atmosphere, a soft, injured ground that injures back. It is the only song that can make me cry through the phone (the song that feels like a softer, sadder love).
PLUTO BLOOMING 