for the wankers

 So I got a phone. I spent a little more money than I meant to so I'll have to wait until you put 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Exile & The Kingdom of Gears

Home is where you make it, and nowhere else. It can be invented. It can be found. It can be created, stolen, taken away. Home is where Larry Fiskovitz was going one rainy afternoon, in the year 2034, on a Thursday in August, when the cool, drizzling rain pattered through the sky, splashing onto his crisp, black windbreaker/skicoat and he stood on the corner of Marigold and Broca Avenue, attempting to catch a cab the old-fashioned way: by hailing one out of the casual, constant herd of the rest of the traffic.  Meanwhile, another man by the name of Jerry Ratbaum, a resident of the New Life Center situated in Hammlett New York (formerly Queens) was piloting his "cab"/a 2016 Ford Chrysler with a rebuilt engine and the assorted technological add-ons like advanced gps radar for superior navigation meant to provide the driver (in some--perhaps unkempt, circles, "Captain") with a convenient shorthand in order to collect more passengers, etc. if only the computerized pharma...
Read more

History of Writing [one of the shortest since the main character/anchor fell out of the sky]

 He stepped off the street and into some discount liquor store in Northern Koreatown. The door came to an easy close behind him.  The place was empty except for the clerk. The light of the room went to his permanently startled eyes like a laser in his mudclay face, stone sober.  Charles Anthony had been gone from his apartment in Hawthorne for a shade over two weeks at that point, living out of his car, walking around in the street and the mostly-clean air. He was getting a taste for people.  He noticed how none of the clerks -- how really no one, ever said Hi to you, like they were too old for manners or niceties of any kind.  He went to a cooler at the back of the store and took a large bottle of Guinness out and brought it up to the counter.  Whether the clerk was filled with disbelief or incredulity, he couldn't say. Like so many of them everywhere, the man had the look of an angry stone that was equally afraid of its anger.  "Just this," said Char...
Read more

The History of Writing Part One (I.)

As it happened, the dorms of Purgatory were no longer even divided into personal faiths, nor the manner in which one perished, nor even in reference to the year of one's original birth. It was, in fact, a kind of ad-hoc filing-system. Primitive in its austerity yet something akin to perfect grace in its convenience. It would be a mistake to call it serene although the darkness is purely without hostility or greed and in that passive reassurance any heart warmed by its own modesty might find some lasting refuge.  Sisyphus stepped forward in the que.  He noted, as he always did, the absence of things. Since there was little (if any) sense in paying attention to what was going on, no one really had any in tention toward it, so there could be no endocrinal or biological response to stress or worry or temptation. The others in the que ( you couldn't determine sex or age or ethnicity by their appearance and inquiring would be damning as idle chatter to a Buddhist and was therefore f...
Read more