stagnanTVowels

Below all of the saints of meat, a mountain. 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 ba

syzygy, maker of straight a habit of three's  The buildings had big bright lights and the longest darkest shadows imaginable. We built all of our short fat houses along the narrow streets that were laid out in the wheat fields and the grass beside the ugly city. Then we drove our cars as fast as we could. The schools were bright and warm and well furnished. Our lives were dull and well groomed. We had sex and pictures of sex. We had mild heart failure and a boatload of acid. Design is an accounting of lines, You always say. But then you like to add that it's the other side of the lines that should intrigue. You go to the black board and write, Lines can cross the great dreams of sadness. Then you cross all that out. Below it you write, But they'll end at the end of often on an otherwise blank page. You turn quickly and explain, They can be left boneless and alone unable to describe the want of our humanity whilst we sit and watch. You gesture at me in the small desk