I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.
I almost gasp: he's said a forbidden word. Sterile. There is no such thing as a sterile man anymore, not officially. There are only women who are fruitful and women who are barren, that's the law.
Human society, they claimed, was a sort of monster, its main by-products being corpses and rubble. It never learned, it made the same cretinous mistakes over and over, trading short-term gain for long...
How soon before there are ancient texts they feel they have to obey but have forgotten how to interpret?
How much longer can I be so fucking cute?
How could a person be caught that way, in an instant, by a glance, the lift of an eyebrow, the curve of an arm? But he was.
Hope throws a smokescreen. Smoke gets in your eyes and so no one is prepared for it, but suddenly it;s there, like an out-of-control bonfire - like murder, only multiplied. It's in full spate.
History (that listof ballooning wishes, flukes,bent times, plunges and mistakesclutched like parachutes)is rolling itself up in your headat one end unrolling at the other.
His drawings were not originals then, only copies. He must have been doing them as a sort of retirement hobby, he was an incurable amateur and enthusiast; if he'd become hooked (on these rock painting...
Her face might be kindly if she would smile. But the frown isn't personal: it's the red dress she disapproves of, and what it stands for. She thinks I may be catching, like a disease or any form of ba...
Heaven, for the Presbyterians, must resemble a banking establishment, with each soul tagged and docketed, and placed in the appropriate pigeonhole.
He's humanoid, he's hominid, he's an aberration, he's abominable; he'd be legendary, if there were anyone left to relate legends.
He was not a monster, she said. People say he was a monster, but he was not one. What could she have been thinking about? Not much, I guess; not back then, not at the time. She was thinking about how...
He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it's the same kind of hunger.
He considers me also a little fragile because artistic. I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.
He came to understand why serial killers sent helpful clues to the police.
Fuck that shit, I told them, I've started this and I'm going to finish it.
For these dances the boys send corsages, which I keep afterward and keep in my bureau drawer; squashed carnations and brown-edged rosebuds, wads of dead vegetation, like a collection of floral shrunke...
Fear is synonymous with the future, and the future consists of forked roads, I should say forking roads, because the roads are forking all the time, like slow lightning. A road is a process, not a loc...
Falling in love, although it resulted in altered body chemistry and was therefore real, was a hormonally induced delusional state.