a path just south of her house welcomed us, asking us to join it in the breath of a crisp march air so my two friends started to walk the path ahead of us which we intended to follow suit on when we saw a little boy unmoved like the trees surrounding him watch from the door of the house which shared the same air, the same sunlight, that the path did.
What if every time an angel is stripped of its wings and responsibilities beside the throne of God, it falls violently to earth?
It’s hard to find a quiet place in the city. It’s even harder to find grass and trees.
Harry Seville considered himself to be a postmodernist. Not postmodern like the postman who came to his house every morning with a white hat and headphones, but postmodern like Fitzgerald and his brain dogs. Every morning he arose before the non-postmodern postman and attacked eggs and toast with relish but without the hot dog condiment […]
William mourned for the past, and he forgot the present, and he put off the future indefinitely.
Here, under the sea, we live in a castle built by the sea dragon of the past. Our main companion is a mermaid.