Death makes me hungry. Maybe it's because I've been emptied; or maybe it's the body's way of seeing to it that I remain alive.
Death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say.
Canlit might not exert the fascination of - say - a venereal wart.
Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings, I can stroke myself, under the dry white sheet...
Calling a piece of short fiction a tale removes it at least slightly from the realm of mundane works and days, as it evokes the world of the folk tale, the wonder tale, and the long-ago teller of tale...
But thoughtless ingratitude is the armour of the young; without it, how would they ever get through life? The old wish the young well, but they wish them ill also: they would like to eat them up, and...
But then it came to me that who I really am is a person who doesn't need to know who he really is, in the usual sense. What does it mean, anyway - family background and so forth? People use it mostly...
But the adjectives change, said Jimmy. Nothing’s worse than last year’s adjectives.
But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he put his arms around me, gathering me up, I was as small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.
But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.
But maybe, underneath, she loves him too much. Maybe it's her excessive love that pushes him away.
But it seems she’d wanted children after all, because when she was told she’d been accidentally sterilized she could feel all the light leaking out of her.
But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immo...
But if its a story, even in my head, I must be telling it to someone. You don't tell a story only to yourself. There's always someone.
But how can she ever get out of it, her life, except through him?
But hatred and viciousness are addictive. You can get high on them. Once you've had a little, you start shaking if you don't get more.
But all my love ever came to was a bad end. Red-hot shoes, barrels studded with nails. That's what it feels like, unrequited love.
Break the link in time between one generation and the next, and it’s game over forever.
Blessed be those that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Nobody said when.
Better never means better for everyone... It always means worse, for some.