A man in a cloud, with icicle teeth and eyes of fire.
A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in the shape of a wreath, and in the center of it a blank space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has bee...
The hearts gone bubonic with jealousy and greed, glinting through the vests and sweaters of anyone at all.
Most people prefer a past is which nothing smells.
Thinks Stan. She knows about the chickens.
Το περιεχόμενο [των περιοδικών] ήταν υπόσχεση. Μιλούσαν για μεταμορφώσεις, γαργαλούσαν με μια ατέλειωτη σειρά από δυνατότητες, όλο και πιο προωθημένες, όπως τα είδωλα σε δυο καθρέπτες τοποθετημένους α...
While he himself puts them on, like a sock over a foot, onto the stub of himself, his extra, sensitive thumb, his tentacle, his delicate, stalked slug's eye, which extrudes, expands, winces, and shriv...
There are some things that do not fare well in high definition.
She doesn’t want to begin, she wants to continue. No: she wants to go back.
Nobody dies from lack of sex. It's lack of love we die from. There's nobody here I can love, all the people I could love are dead or elsewhere. Who knows where they are or what their names are now? Th...
Her face might be kindly if she would smile
Hard to get the full view, of the sky, of anything. But we can do it, a little at a time, a quick move of the head, up and down, to the side and back. We have learned to see the world in gasps.
Bye-bye love, as in songs. All alone now. It was so sad. Why did such things have to disintegrate like that? Why did longing and desire, and friendliness and goodwill too, have to shatter into pieces?...
Your legacy from him is the realm of infinite speculation. You're free to reinvent yourself at will.
Your friend is intellectually honourable, Jimmy's mother would say. He doesn't lie to himself.
You're not my real parents, every child has thought. I'm not your real child. But with orphans, it's true. What freedom, to thumb your nose authentically!
You say, Do you / love me, do you love me / I answer you: / I stretch your arms out / one to either side, / your head slumps forward.
You know I love you. You’re the only one. She isn’t the first woman he’s ever said that to. He shouldn’t have used it up so much earlier in his life, he shouldn’t have treated it like a tool, a wedge,...
You don't look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.
You create your own world by your inner attitude, the Gardeners used to say.