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At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.

If you can be seen, you can be killed. No-man’s-land is everyman’s land.

We crossed the length of Iran to reach a lake so big they called it a sea.

“You’re going somewhere now,” he said. “Up to the big smoke.”

We cannot leave it to the forces to rub out the color of the world.

Into the storm, the iridescent cosmos. To the savage dances of sunset.

It was only a matter of time before the damp of loss grew within us like moss.

How do we heal our savage hearts, foolish wrath gone rogue on any soul.

At 35,000 feet, the center of heaven, in the deep Milky Way, we meet.

I wish I could tell him he’s not going to hell. It would be so freeing for him.

It has its life, returning always to the ocean. It doesn’t care.

Any good river should be fat, any good ocean should be worth meeting. A child won a hundred dollars by taking it from the tail of a muddy calf. I remember Robinhood too, but that feels like a different thing.

She was here. She could not go on. It was the end—the end of the world.

Another disposable medical mask drying in the June sun after all the ceremonies are done Looks for a second like a lip snarling in that flirting way you see the tattooed girls snarl

Walking on Canal Street, I slipped on the curb and fell on my face.

Colonel Hammer glares, willing us to attention. A few pilots sit up.

Oh, won’t you lie here darling whistlepigs, here, curled at my side?

Your life is your own and then suddenly it belongs to someone else.

Havana, Cuba, on the inevitable cusp of change. A photo gallery.

Hemingway’s Royal typewriter sat atop a volume of Who’s Who.

He tries to appear slight in his leather jacket and turbulent jeans.

The car is only a couple years old, but its memory taps into the past.

The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence.

We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle, the Sardasht front.

I know what it means to be born in one life and meant for another.

I saw the man for the first time in Budapest on the Széchenyi Bridge.

The judge’s mother was impossible; her mere presence was infuriating.

Any white man without a servant was presumed to be in need of help.

Crescencia knew that it was a sin to be in love with a married man.