Our silly name.

Our silly name.

Marfa, for all its tenderness and generosity of spirit, isn't inviolate from collective apprehension and anger over big questions of ownership, stewardship, identity, and accessibility. It's an age of anxiety; who is, after all? 

But even though things we loved are gone and the streets are holier and it's been years since it didn't feel like a dark joke to try to buy a house in town, years since you knew you'd know everyone at a party—and even though sometimes we scream at a wall or the sky or the backs of our teeth with our mouth closed that we really fucking hate this place—we still love it here and we're glad we came. 

And nobody's showed up here too late, whether they stay for an afternoon or a year, to get to love it, too. 

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