I want what we all want, said Carl. To move certain parts of the interior of myself into the exterior world, to see if they can be embraced.
I am relaxed. It's just buried under layers of incredulity and panic. But underneath those I'm very relaxed.
Cocaine Suppe Mit Tittenschnakken,
But we were chumps and we knew it. As makers of sentences we were practically fetal, beneath notice, unlaunched, fooling around in our spare time or on somebody else’s dime. Nobody loved our sentences...
All Thinking is Wishful.
Eso es muy superficial.- No se puede ser profundo sin superficie.
Zelmo was nearly bellowing by the time he raised his glass to the tables center. 'To the human heart!' Diners at other tables glanced to see what was the matter.
Yeah, maybe you look a little less familiar yourself.
To the resentment that hides inside love, to the loneliness that hides among companions.
The big Nazi cat went on raking up thread-loops from my trousers, seemingly intent on single-handedly reinventing Velcro.
My heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.
Mai infrangere le illusioni degli altri se non si è certi di poter offrir loro un'alternativa migliore di quella a cui li si vuole strappare.
I jotted the name down mentally on that tattered notepad I call a memory. The pen skipped.
Her presence was sturdy and watery at once, arms weirdly muscled, nipples like small tongues riding on the mercurial flesh that glided on his surface, thighs smooth to where his fingers plummeted insi...
Except science now tells us that luck is there whether you acknowledge it or not. And I'm afraid in your case I see the signs of a history of bad luck. Not even a latency so much as a full-blown case...
Everything funny in a not-funny-at-all kind of way. Sarcasm as something you practiced like karate. Later concealing your mute fury when nobody fed you the opening lines.
Anonymous, where among the hard-bitten, laid-off-lathe-operator
Exemplified the dull rigidity of Singapore’s old colonial fantasies about itself.
They got stoneder and stoneder and quit talking.
The wind was picking up off the ocean now and the whole coastal scene had a bleak, abandoned look, as though Maine in November really belonged to the ragged gulls who wheeled over the sun-worn pier, a...