brood

In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present.

This one too is about brooding men with an inner glow.

Meanwhile the narrator’s financially devious husband appears as a vulture with “the brooding eye, the blood-tipped beak, the flabby folds of flesh” of a bird of prey.

It feels exactly how you want a neighborhood French spot to feel: tin ceilings, butter-yellow walls, a dark wooden bar lined with regulars, some contemporary art depicting people drinking, brooding, smoking.

Can the “paragon of animals,” in Hamlet’s brooding formulation, really amount to nothing more than a “quintessence of dust”?