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Showing posts from February 4, 2016

In the Cratch of a Deem (or the superb cost of one's theories)

Howes almost had it right—according to rumor, the Club was going to be serving mammoth, not mastodon. The meat had supposedly been hacked from an icy carcass in the Aleutian Islands by a Jesuit-turned-geologist named Bernard, Eric Boodman Crapus mundi. Do you have any thought for what you've left behind. What a smear.
That wasn't my intention. There are entire whorls of empty mastery that clog the vines dying outside my small room here. If desired, they'll serve your purpose better or maybe more. But if you've come to share with me then you'll find that my study is empty. The paper's all gone. Who needs courage. I took prayer enough for 2 and broke what I could. Then I burned the chairs and littered the garden with the piss of my faith. Now that it's done Amberly, He tells her. You won't appreciate my work as much.
You've got the look of a spastic on you. He's wearing your skin like it's bark.
Yes, yes, I have a theory about that. But first …