Editors of magazines aren’t gods, but they have to be goddamn holy people to pick and choose who gets published and who does not; I believe that is the closest to divinity anyone could pray for. Editors spend long hours—receiving weak pay— attempting to understand the intent of the writer. But no text will ever perfectly reflect what the author intended.
We all have that one thing. It’s a thing we adore, sometimes dread and always desire. And that thing is hardly ever the same thing as another person’s thing, but when we find out that our things are the same, we can let them hang out together so they can play.