The jet's movement and trail seem incisionish, as if white meat behind the blue were exposed and widening in the wake of the blade.
David Foster WallaceAbout author
- Author's profession: Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: February 21, 1962
- Died: December 12, 2008
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I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? -
Its snaky acids kiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.
Sylvia Plath