This, once almost an endearing habit, is now an affectation that drives me to the brink of homicide.
The inside of my head is out of control. It is on fire. It is snowing. It is a wild jungle. It is an Arctic wilderness. It is everything that has ever happened and everything that ever will happen, al...
I am really here. Yet I know I am not. I am inside something that must be buried in my head. I am layers deep in my own brain.
Time is a random thing. It is the thing that makes us older. Humans use it to organize the world. They have invented a system to try to make order from randomness. The other humans, all of them but me...
Apron, a cheap appropriation of the Cath Kidston effect. I feel like an interloper in someone else’s life. I am a creature from science fiction, wearing an earth body to disguise my true self.