Time made into a fence. That’s storytelling.
We grew up feasting, the three of us split one flap steak, white bread to mop the grease, button mushrooms, milk. My dad told me to remain with my wife and demalice my mother.
My life is a long, slow nip-slip
It was my birthday and so he wanted to do something good to distract me from the bad of this, the years ticked, that sick ritual.
Once he posted comments on an outdated blog of mine, describing my face in the pictures with words you usually use for ripe fruit. More than once he took my words to replace them with his.
I dressed, ate very little breakfast, did Mundane Egg with Marta, played backgammon with Borka, ate very little lunch, took the lift to the basement
You see I was supposed to open and be co-proprietor of Macelleria 86. Instead, I was the recipient of an envelope with the store’s name embossed on the back. It was quite the reversal of events.
This isn’t a declaration.
This is a showcase of my talents—
getting drunk and sitting down.
This adult-generated stream of language, which generally completely bypasses the idea that space is itself a medium that can be experienced and responded to sensitively, for everyone’s benefit, is like an incantation that is darkly magical in that it makes space disappear.
The leaves shade a girl. They shade three identical girls.
you have the right face for everything except charity work except zookeeper
My best girlfriend so ugly I skipped the kissing part.
That’s why it’s not intimate.
I've touched the interiors of too many mouths to feel anything for them anymore.
My body a desk
She marries Ross.
In July, a police officer called while I was at work.