Season 3, Episode 1: The Green Grass

Plotlines we’ll never see: Carrie grapples with shoe tariffs, and Miranda moves into the sewers.

“I stare at my reflection, and I see / my melody is waning—no surprise, / but only blues take root and hold.”

“I used to sit for hours / at an electric typewriter. / I remember well its hum.”

“Honey in my walk, & I lean, now down the Avenue, pseudo-pioneer to a seized / City, liege to a bee.”

Reality became malleable, was always giving way and changing its rules.

“With your one, unchanging thought, what could you say?”

“You mysterious cruel hand, / you cold dropped and not-yet-dropped rain.”

How dare life require so much of you, when what you were born to do is sit in a corner of the room and watch and draw?

“Mowing the lawn, it’s revealed, is not the torture / it once appeared as the loved one tore through // the yard in heated fury.”

Several factors were examined to determine that you are the epicenter of a phenomenon that swallows up the possibility of romantic love like a black hole sucking in light.

Celebrating a century.

American diplomacy in 2025.