Emily Gould and her misadventures

Why is this painful sequel to A Streetcar Named Desire appearing on NYT cover? I used to think of New York Times as the last living speaker of a dying language - that of quality journalism. Now I feel unmoored, the way you can only feel in a democracy with not a single responsible newspaper. For subjecting a loyal reader to this torture, I expect a fully tendered apology from the editors, sans inverted bedroom pictures of themselves.

Woe is me, indeed.

Precious silence

In these strange pockets of silence
Little waves of the heart
Gently lap against my mind
To break the silence

A bleak light in the distance
Flickering, yet calm
Signals impending winds
That come to break the silence

Every wave whispers a wish
For the flickering light to stay still
Gently swirling at it's feet
Begging not to break the silence

Shall we settle for these sweet swishes?
They ask as they wistfully bounce off each other
A wisp of foam and a touch of sand
Cannot spoil their merry silence

Wave after wave come crossing at the streams
At first soothing, befriending
Soon without warning they rise above the tide
And then, is gone, my silence

The rush can barely stop
The light flickers in a mad hurry
As the waters from the deep ocean
Stay absorbed in their silence

These little waves need some help
To turn their fury into a soaring rhythm
A small memory of those soft dark nights
When they knew their sweet silence

A force from within
Must take the seething foam
And turn it into a gentler wavelet
Slower and milder in silence

And then perhaps one night
these new little waves will make
tiny playful leaps on twilight shores
With reassuring silence

And my mind will embrace
The little taps of the heart
Safe in it's familiar melody
Never to break my silence