Revolt by Jakub Rucinski

I must apologize in advance for my reluctance to write recently. A lot of my 'professional' work (that is, content produced to be considered and thought about, such as books, novels, essay at cetera) has been centered on fiction rather than participating in political discourse, simply because I deem the latter quite pointless. However, with the current state of affairs in both the United States and the United Kingdom, two countries where I have resided, pointing to: a bleak reality where the consumer is so immersed in a process of Fisherian 'Capitalist Realism' that he himself becomes the product of giant companies that sell one's data back to them a situation where inflation (particularly of the US dollar) has become completely normalized, and the Federal Reserve does not seem to matter it becomes illegal to criticize things being done by elected representatives upon both your class and demographic it is completely normal for government appointees and public servan...

Twenty-one . There were exactly twenty-one separate dots on the paper, some milk-white, most soot-black, each paired in a tight curl like a brood of small yin and yang seeds, as if each speck meant to clasp its own shadow and, clasping it, make a whole that no one could split without first splitting their own sight. It felt staged for her, not in the grand way of curtains and footlights, but in the mean, close way of a trap set for a shrew, baited with a crumb that looks like mercy. It was as if the room had been waiting for her to arrive at the page, and the page had been waiting for her to arrive at the dots. Before she had eyes that knew to name, ears that knew to sort, a nose that knew to rank smoke from soap, before she had the hard little peg of self that people jam into the soft mind and call a person, she could still feel it all, she could still take in the lot of it, the warm and the chill, the sweet and the sour, taught by no hand and yet taught, taught by the tongue itself a...