I say it for the last time: Maggots are gods. Butterflies are flowers in perpetual motion. Decayed teeth easily broken. I belong to the days of the silent movie.
Fucking is a literary act. I talked to the storm and was myself the storm, and coming from above me in the remote distance I thought I heard something.
In this mode heroic ideals, and particularly the dignity of artistic creation, are subverted by the primary voice in the work - that is, the voice of the commentator or narrator.
The gift lay buried. It was a year of quarreling, of intellectual stimulation, of spiritual unrest.
She leaned against the bookcase, reaching up with one hand to grasp the folds of the green curtain above her. I was so lonely, so sad, so tired, so quivering, so broken, so beat, that I got up my courage, the courage necessary to approach a strange girl, and acted.
Please forgive me.
“So you’re not going to hang yourself?”
“I’ll thank you to never meddle in my affairs,” she said haughtily.
“Anyone know how to say ‘I love you’ in Japanese?”
The earth was charged with seeds. And we sail away on a film of sun.