i am going to start selling air in dark orange bags marked: moon-blooms

I walk into the kitchen, look at the typer down there on the floor. It's a dirty floor. It's a dirty typer that types dirty stories

I'm going, she said. I love you but you're crazy, you're doomed.

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

Something that never happens anywhere at any time.

I knew exactly what I was doing: I was doing nothing. because I knew there was nothing to do.