Giant Steps Press

12/31/2025

𝔸 ℂ𝔼ℕ𝕋𝕌ℝ𝕐 𝕎𝕀𝕋ℍ𝕆𝕌𝕋

A hundred years ago, on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟴, 𝟭𝟵𝟮𝟱, 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒚 𝒀𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏 was found dead at Saint Petersburg’s Hotel Angleterre. Beside him lay blood on paper – his final poem, “𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚋𝚢𝚎” – its eight lines to be engraved inside the Russian mind, just forty-four words holding all the tragedy & fatalism of the Russian soul.

Earlier in October, the poet celebrated his thirtieth birthday. On the last day of the year, his funeral gathered two hundred thousand attendants.

We’re posting this on 𝗗𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟯𝟭 — the centennial day of his funeral — because this week isn’t an abstract anniversary: it’s a live, calendar-perfect window where history still feels like a pulse.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗮 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲

Yesenin came from the village, not the salons: a self-taught “peasant poet” whose lines keep the smell of soil and horses, even when he’s dressed in the city’s chaos. That’s part of why he was adored — and part of why he became politically inconvenient. A lyric voice that won’t behave is always dangerous to a system that wants tidy feelings.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀: 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗺, 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗿𝗲𝘄𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝗺, 𝗮 𝗱𝗲𝗯𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗲

December 1925 reads like noir. The official version says su***de. But almost immediately, the story split into arguments: about the room, the logistics, the politics, the surveillance atmosphere of the era, and why so many records and details stayed contested. That uncertainty is exactly what makes it “fun” in the darkest sense: it reads like a murder mystery because it never stopped being argued as one.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹: 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝘂𝗽, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻’𝘁 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴

What is certain: the grief went enormous. On December 31, 1925, Moscow turned out in a way that made it impossible to pretend Yesenin was just a “hooligan” footnote. And then came the long tug-of-war over his legacy: admiration on the street, suspicion in official culture, suppression and revival, memorized lines surviving any ban.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲

Yesenin remains a cultural pressure point: the poet of tenderness and self-destruction, peasant memory and metropolitan ruin — proof that lyric truth doesn’t always align with political usefulness.

𝗦𝗼: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦?

Open-and-shut tragedy — or a century-old case file that still feels unfinished?

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵, 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭/𝘵𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝟫𝟪𝟪. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜.𝘚., 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴.

12/25/2025

Christmas wish from Giant Steps Press:
𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍, 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓

🎄✨📚
Merry Christmas!

And if you’re looking for a book that lives right in that midnight glow: 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 — a desert-set spiritual odyssey where wonder isn’t a gimmick, healing isn’t abstract, and the unseen comes with real moral weight.

If you want something luminous, strange, and deeply human for the holiday stretch, REOS is waiting.

🛒 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 is now available for purchase on Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/4ppzevr8

🚨 ⚡️ 𝑳𝑰𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑫-𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑶𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇ-ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬 ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴʟᴏᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ 𝗗𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱
𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰: [email protected]

12/21/2025

🔔 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

𝙍𝙊𝙐𝙉𝘿 𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙃, 𝙊𝙋𝙀𝙉 𝙎𝙆𝙔 𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡𝗦 𝗔 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗥𝗢𝗔𝗗 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗣 𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗢 𝗔 𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗘

IMMORTAL “SKY MAN” INHABITS A DEAD BODY, SPEAKS IN “PICTURE-TALK,” AND DRAWS A SKEPTICAL NYC PHOTOGRAPHER INTO A HIGH-SPEED ODYSSEY OF HEALING, MIND-READING, DANGER, AND MORAL REPAIR

NEW YORK CITY, New York, December 21, 2025 — 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 by 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐥 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐨𝐧 begins with a cosmic misfire: an immortal being from another dimension is tricked by sorcery into the body of a dead man. Calling himself 𝗦𝗸𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗻, he moves through the Sonoran Desert healing ills, reading minds, and speaking in “picture-talk,” an ESP-like language that bends time and exposes hidden motives.

Moses, a New York City photographer haunted by his past, pulls over to photograph the ragged stranger and rejects his story. Yet at every stop, the supernatural breaks through: uncanny healings, buried histories surfacing, and clues tightening around the dead man’s origins and Sky Man’s destination. The result is a fast, genre-crossing ride that shifts from speculative road novel into psychological and metaphysical suspense, driving toward a sky-opening climax.

Beneath the page-turning momentum is the novel’s moral charge: spiritual experience arrives with responsibility; revelation with confrontation; perception with choice. Sky Man’s presence sets off a chain reaction—old grief, buried motives, guarded egos—and leaves no one untouched—and no one untested: will they repair what is torn, or hide behind proof, pride, and suspicion? The only way forward is 𝐭𝐢𝐤𝐤𝐮𝐧 𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐦—repair through justice and loving kindness—even when answers keep slipping the frame.

“𝑊𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦, 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑣𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 & 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙… 𝐿𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑐𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟…”
— Cheryl A Townsend

“𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙 𝑣𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑐 𝑗𝑜𝑘𝑒…𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑎𝑡 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑤𝑒 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤…”
— Stephen-Paul Martin

🛒 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉, 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒌𝒚 is now available for purchase on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/195826606X?ref=sp_email&dplnkId=691d2d0f-77a9-454a-bb00-76436df2094d&nodl=1

🚨 ⚡️ 𝑳𝑰𝑴𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑫-𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 𝑶𝑭𝑭𝑬𝑹: ᴛʜᴇ ᴇ-ʙᴏᴏᴋ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬 ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏᴡɴʟᴏᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ 𝗗𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭, 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

𝘛𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰: [email protected]

11/27/2025

Happy Thanksgiving! Here is what Haki Madhabuti called "the real enemy"---it ain't left or right, R or D, but deadly:

This power elite was already used to ignoring the powerless. Redeeming a disgraced s*x offender was a logical next step.

11/23/2025

props to artist Tony Roc Adamo:

11/17/2025

🕵️‍♂️ Ｓ𝚙ｙ𝚌ｒ𝚊ｆ𝚝, Ｓ𝚘ｆ𝚝 𝙿ｏ𝚠ｅ𝚛 & 𝙻ｉ𝚝ｅ𝚛ａ𝚛ｙ Ｍ𝚢ｔ𝚑: Ｔ𝚑ｅ Ｐ𝚊ｒ𝚒ｓ Ｒ𝚎ｖ𝚒ｅ𝚠’𝚜 𝚂ｈ𝚊ｄ𝚘ｗ Ｏ𝚛ｉ𝚐ｉ𝚗 𝚂ｔ𝚘ｒ𝚢

A new interview with biographer 𝗟𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗥𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻 revisits one of the strangest crossroads in American literary history:

❓𝑊𝑎𝑠 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝑹𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒘 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑪𝑰𝑨 𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑐𝑜-𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒏?

Richardson lays out the story without melodrama: in the early 1950s, Matthiessen was a young CIA recruit stationed in Paris, tasked with gathering intelligence in cultural circles. Starting a literary magazine gave him both proximity and plausible deniability. What followed is the part we all know: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸 became one of the most influential literary journals of the 20th century.

But the conversation asks a deeper, more unsettling question:
𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑤𝑎𝑟 “𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒” 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑠?

The piece doesn’t argue that the magazine was propaganda. Instead, it traces how art, idealism, ambition, and state power intersected in ways that complicate the magazine’s origin story — and our broader assumptions about the purity of cultural institutions.

A reminder that literary history often has a backroom, a shadow archive, a second story beneath the official one.

📚 𝑅⃨𝑒⃨𝑎⃨𝑑⃨ 𝑡⃨ℎ⃨𝑒⃨ 𝑓⃨𝑢⃨𝑙⃨𝑙⃨ 𝑐⃨𝑜⃨𝑛⃨𝑣⃨𝑒⃨𝑟⃨𝑠⃨𝑎⃨𝑡⃨𝑖⃨𝑜⃨𝑛⃨:⃨
𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙃𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘾𝙄𝘼 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨 𝙍𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬?
👉

November 11, 2025 – “In a funny way, it was really the fact that writing is far too solitudinous an activity that gave us The Paris Review. Along with the CIA, of course.”

11/06/2025

🍁 𝓒𝓞𝓞𝓛 𝓕𝓡𝓞𝓝𝓣: 𝓛𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰-𝓖𝓸 & 𝓑𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓰 is about to land.

Have you ever deleted a file because it felt unnecessary, only to realize later you indeed needed it and pulled it back onto your desktop? Sometimes it even goes further: yesterday’s “rubbish”—doomed to vanish when your machine empties the trash on schedule—suddenly becomes the backbone of the project, the draft you keep reopening day after day. What felt disposable blossoms into catharsis, and before long, it stands at the center of the work, ready for other eyes.

Literature has its rescues, too. 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆 began in the bin until 𝐓𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 pulled it out and urged him on. 𝐕𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐯’𝐬 𝑳𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂 nearly burned; 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐚 𝐍𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐯 saved the pages (twice) so the book could become itself. What we cast off can compost into the soil of the work; what we restore sometimes restores us.

Over the next stretch, we’ll share pieces that inhabit this tension: release and return, discard and rediscovery, loss that becomes resource.

If you want to share work that sits in this current, we’re still considering late submissions for the lineup (previously published excerpts welcome if they serve the arc).

📩 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙤 𝙎𝙪𝙗𝙢𝙞𝙩:
• 𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘭: [email protected]
• 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦: COOL FRONT — [Your Name]

—

11/01/2025

𝓓𝓘𝓐 𝓓𝓔 𝓛𝓞𝓢 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓣𝓞𝓢: 𝓛𝓞𝓢 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓣𝓞𝓢 𝓝𝓞 𝓜𝓤𝓔𝓡𝓔𝓝

In Mexico, 𝗗𝗶𝗮 𝗱𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘀 𝗠𝘂𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝘀 was never about ghosts returning from the grave. It arose from a long continuum of Mesoamerican cosmology; particularly the Mexica vision that death is not negation but transformation. The Aztec goddess 𝗠𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗵𝘂𝗮𝘁𝗹, guardian of the underworld, presided over rituals honoring the continuity of existence. When Catholicism arrived, these observances merged with All Saints’ and All Souls’ Days, creating the modern festival we know: syncretic, layered, and deeply philosophical.

𝗥𝗼𝘀𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗼 𝗖𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘀 (1925–1974) inherited this worldview through both history and intellect. A novelist, poet, and diplomat from Chiapas, she reframed the ritual of remembrance as a political and linguistic act. Her essays in 𝘔𝘶𝘫𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯 argued that erasure — of women, of Indigenous voices, of the poor — was a social death to be reversed through speech. In her poems, resurrection happened not in heaven but in articulation: to speak was to re-exist.

For Castellanos, language was an ofrenda — not a flower on an altar but a testimony of presence.

❝ 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛; 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. ❞

Her legacy recasts Día de los Mu***os as something more radical: the insistence that no one, once named, can be erased again.

***os

10/31/2025

🎃 𝔥𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢: “𝔞 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔰𝔨𝔦𝔫” 👻

On Halloween night, our series steps from the archives into the imagination. A Ghost in His Own Skin inhabits that liminal city-space where the spectral becomes flesh and the living turn translucent.

❝ 𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑜𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ. ❞

In this tale from 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, a man from Punim County hides beneath the floorboards of Death’s own home, clutching the arrow fated for him. As he listens to the footsteps above—those of the archer and his doomed wife—the story unfolds as a haunting meditation on fear, survival, and the ghost each of us carries within our skin.

📖 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵: 𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘎𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘮’𝘴 𝘞𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘥 & 𝘌𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦 — 𝗔𝗩𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗪: https://tinyurl.com/4nr9a98h
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𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗: 𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚍𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚅𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜, 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙸 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚜𝚔 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛, 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚋 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙. 𝙵𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖, 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗, 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚜. 𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜, 𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍.

𝚁𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎, 𝚊 𝚠𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙. 𝚃𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛—𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢! 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚢. 𝚃𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚔𝚎: 𝚢𝚎𝚜, 𝙸 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚔. 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚖, 𝚍𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚕.

𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛’𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝, 𝙸 𝚜𝚗𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚎𝚊, 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚠𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙸𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚌, 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝, 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎.

𝙷𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜, 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑’𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚙𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛; 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝚆𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝙸’𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚏 𝙸’𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝙸 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚜. 𝙰 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚕’𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝚂𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍.

𝙶𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗, 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝, 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚜.

𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑 𝚓𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛. 𝙴𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎! 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝙸 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝? 𝙸’𝚖 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝙸 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚕𝚞𝚍𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎, 𝚊 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗, 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑.

10/28/2025

💀 𝙋𝙊𝙀’𝙎 𝙁𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙇 𝙈𝙔𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙔: 𝘼 𝘾𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙇𝙀 𝙄𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘿𝘼𝙍𝙆

❝ 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑎𝑔𝑢𝑒. 𝑊ℎ𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑎𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑠? ❞ 💭
— “𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝑩𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍” (𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟒)

On an October night in 1849, Edgar Allan Poe was found wandering the streets of Baltimore, delirious and dressed in another man’s clothes. He was taken to Washington College Hospital, where he slipped in and out of consciousness, calling for a mysterious ‘Reynolds.’ Four days later, he died: alone, at 40 years old.

The cause? Still unknown. Perhaps, simply Death returning the favor to its most loyal chronicler.

Poe’s life was infused with the gothic, his mind haunted by beauty & ruin, its corridors echoing with obsession and dread, but his final act remains the most mysterious chapter of all. The man who gave us 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘭𝘭-𝘛𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘜𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳, and 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘷𝘦𝑛 became, in death, his own last unsolved tale.

As the veil thins this Halloween, we raise a candle to literature’s restless spirits: those who walked the boundary between art, life, and afterlife.

10/25/2025

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒: 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 & 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 (𝗡𝗬𝗖):
With the final debate behind us, the real act begins. 𝙀𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙫𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮 (Sat, Oct 25) and runs through Sun, Nov 2. 𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝘿𝙖𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙏𝙪𝙚, 𝙉𝙤𝙫 𝟰.

𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲: We just published “𝘍𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘰𝘳𝘴, 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵,” a compact mini-syllabus on power, image, and the role the city & those running it play in it. Give it a quick read now; then take that lens with you to the booth.

𝗪𝗵𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀:
The last mayoral general (2021) drew about 1.15 million ballots: roughly 23.39% turnout of registered voters. That’s 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑟 New Yorkers deciding the city’s storyline for everyone else. We can write a better chapter.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲:
This is your chance to set the city’s next four years: on housing affordability, migrant services, climate resilience, transit reliability, and public safety. Of course, the decisions made now shape core urban life, but they also decide whether libraries stay open on Sundays, small presses get funded, school book budgets grow, arts grants are given, and cultural spaces survive enough to host the next launch / poetry slam night.

𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲:
📆 𝑉𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑦 𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑁𝑜𝑣 4⃣. Make a plan, bring a friend.
🗳️ 𝐹𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑜𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑖𝑡𝑒 via this link: https://vote.nyc/page/find-your-poll-site

10/24/2025

𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐒, 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Cities are governed by policy, but imagined through stories. In the run-up to NYC’s mayoral vote, this mini-syllabus pairs fiction and nonfiction to examine power, image, turnout, and the institutions that make culture possible. Not a pitch, a prism: lenses to read the city more clearly before you help write its next chapter.

𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗:

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒔 — 𝑇𝑜𝑚 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓𝑒
🖍️ Money–media–law collide in 1980s NYC; politics becomes theater with citywide consequences.

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝑩𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒓: 𝑹𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒓𝒌 — 𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝐴. 𝐶𝑎𝑟𝑜
🖌️ A definitive anatomy of how unelected power, wielded through authorities and bonds, remade NYC’s parks, bridges, and highways, often at the expense of neighborhoods.

𝑹𝒂𝒈𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 — 𝐸. 𝐿. 𝐷𝑜𝑐𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑜𝑤
🖍️ NYC/New Rochelle, early-1900s: a collage of real and invented lives—Houdini, Emma Goldman, J. P. Morgan, Henry Ford—where race, class, immigration, and celebrity capitalism collide; history rendered as sharp, unsentimental montage rather than nostalgia.

𝑩𝒊𝒈 𝑩𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝑻𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒔𝒐𝒏, 𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒈𝒐, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆 — 𝐷𝑜𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑎𝑠 𝐵𝑢𝑘𝑜𝑤𝑠𝑘𝑖
🖌️ Chicago as a case study in spectacle-first populism, where ethnic-bloc politics and media manipulation show how branding can eclipse governance.

𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒍 𝑩. 𝑺𝒕𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑷𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 — 𝐿𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑁. 𝑀𝑜𝑜𝑟𝑒
🖍️ Cleveland, 1967: the first elected Black mayor of a major U.S. city and the coalitions that shifted urban power.

𝑩𝒐𝒘𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑨𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒆 — 𝑅𝑜𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑡 𝐷. 𝑃𝑢𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚
🖌️ The classic on declining social capital and civic association; essential for understanding turnout gaps, trust, and why institutions like libraries and neighborhood groups are the scaffolding of democracy.

𝑨 𝑴𝒂𝒚𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆 — 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑟
🖍️ A candid look at big-city governance as a bargain between machine politics and public virtue, showing how private appetites warp public duty.