You are not haunted. You are not dead. Sure, gone is the tidal restless of E.B. White’s commuters, the “second” New York, but you’ve grown into your spaces.
Category: Travels
On a Trip in India
The Indian morning sky blooms pink. I drop a window, smelling cool morning air as the truck speeds down the highway. Dense city vapors shift to woodsmoke and dewy soil.
Cutout
The atmosphere is lively. Runners drop heavily onto benches: a figure, a garment, the smell of perspiring bodies—gross! You enjoy it.
Italy
As we approach the bus station, which isn’t a building at all but a loop in the road with a small sign, we don’t see anyone. If during the vacation I need to dump a body I think I’ve found my spot.
Ichthyosaur (looking)
BIO: Adria Bernardi is the author of a collection of essays, Dead Meander, and two novels, Openwork and The Day … More
Unease
Solo things, sad things alone, fresh things headed for destruction in the dark, the loneliness of months of confinement against disease, harm to others, one’s own death, this is what these five photographs represent. In a word: unease.
Wanderlust 