The Tree People, obscured by a scratched screen. Horse races and donkey races are very different. Ya see, there's just somethin' about a horse race. DONE.
Trimmed trees nice 'n' straight in a row extending in a straight line around the circumference of the earth, vivacity expunged by mechanical vaporous wheezes.
Only dust, a foreign landscape, but a cool relief from a warm chamber.
The skies are blue, this is a great day to fly a kite. Any day is a great day to do anything.
I handled Andrew.
I buried Mr. Milderton.
I shop at Green Co., where the grass grows straight up into the air for miles, till it meets the sky and explodes and delicately dresses the earth in an imperceptibly fine layer of fresh silken ash.
I massage my organs when I am sad. It relieves the tension, mother says. My mission in life is to cramp up my neckbones and starve to death in an open field.
Pickaxe the pigeons, all of them. Gallop and twist and burn the dragons.
I haven't had to break with the cracks yet, and these are my bones.
Wake up tasting today's flavors, go to sleep and kill everyone in your dreams.
