Again, before the due date arrives, the library shelves stock books no one will read and that will pass lonely, more under the dust, at the annual (but not annual enough) book sale. It is a purge more than anything, and the smell of fresh pages butting against the mould is only enough.
All Christmas is, the one with the Santa Claus dropping mysterious packages into homes and running off before coffee-stained guards have a chance to ask "Whose bag is this?", is a way for people to get together and suppress the minorities in a way that makes it feel inclusive.
Smiles are paralysed senses on the brink of laughter or outright breaking down into saltier and saltier marshes. The mouth, turning up at the face of all that is sad or rather mundane, is really looking to run and take care of itself. Away from your face. That liar in the mirror.
Starts and fits. No words for the leprotic when the bacteriotherapy fails to take. Bacteriotherapy, bacteriophage, it just more dissimulation: false promises and double bottoms.
Presents, like any other venereal diseases, are shared between people who broach a border of familiarity. The closer the bond, the grander the thought or price tag behind the gift. Socially, when not cared for, it's akin to dry drowning.
Foli[-age, +e à deux] creeps up in this place, Chicago School-driven. No other explanation for the slick suits that slid out the cloaca post-April spill. Shit stains tattooed on shit-stains, no amount of Canesten® will leave these souls clean.
People forget Mr. Lurkins ended up in the belly of a family of rats. Merry Christmas. Take that with you to where you rot, where eidolists sit and sip Japanese, bursars full to bursting.
Diluvian revelations never stop when it comes to the overreach of the NSA. Every week sheds a little more light on how far warrantless wiretapping and communication logging can help us make money, or absolve us of not breaking into a bank.
Cheeks spread apart are easier to wipe than cheeks squished together. This is why you sit and spread when wiping, if you don't have a bidet, instead of standing up and feeling the squat of turd remnants Rorschach against your buttocks.
Cookie narrated the fucking thing, and even he didn’t make the Price/ing/hoffer connection. Still, little messages in a hollow queen, twist of the wire, then heraus! heraus! Who knew? William Holden, that’s who. Not that Bill could say anything, face down as he was in Gloria Swanson’s pool.
For every scent of time travel, a little bit of radiation lingers in the air. Bend temporal reality enough and you'll have a group of hikers wander out into the snow to catch a sight of who knows what's going on that it's still a mystery 55 years later.
[The] way forward has become clear now. Emaciated some, save for a paunch, with low slung shorts and a swagger that shoots from the hip but was never earned. Not never earned.
Sirenidae, the sirens, aquatic salamander. This is what lonely sailors saw, not creatures of that sham order, Sirenia, which includes dugongs and manatees. There is nothing in that, thus spake the lowly pipefish of the family Syngnathidae, still living in the same house but a little older now.