It is snowing. I am feeling queer. No one speaks. We don’t know what to say. The snow gets deeper. I am dreaming a dream relieving the tension for what we don’t know.
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I thought of reminding my mother that she had missed her turn last night to clean the bathroom, but I restrained myself deciding that antagonizing her would only cause more trouble. I walked into the kitchen, where she greeted me with a goofy grin, “What a beautiful day my son!”
Madame Bovary was a friend of mine. I wouldn’t think it true to say this, except that it is based upon one method instead of another. I often would turn at the sight of her ass in broad daylight, secretly pondering the outside of my bathroom door.
A loud buzzing arose, and from all sides there were suddenly hundreds of singing rats approaching. They began circling around me. I thought I might need to use the pepper spray hidden beneath my coat, but after an hour they seemed to tire and rolled onto their backs and slept.
Looking out the window panes I thought there will be time, a place, to clear the faces that I’ve met, a time to realize and rehabilitate.
She like to swim in the raw. Sometimes her events and scenes would hold the attentive eye and ear of men, arousing great interest and affording them enjoyment as they looked and listened. The sight of her bathing would hold the crowd, as a conversation about the weather with a peasant’s child.
translating the self - an obscure irrelevant language - satisfies a need - a new paradigmatic selfimage.
And so I pulled out my passport. I was bundled up and ready for anything. My breath seemed to recede slowly. The air around me had a starkness that rippled my skin. Halfway to the door I heard a loud noise. I turned and saw the blade of a knife coming towards me.
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Authorrunning the whole length of the horizon... Archives
August 2018
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