The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea.
In woman's womb word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation.
I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women.
All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.
My heart is quite calm now. I will go back.
I am not likely to die of bashfulness but neither am I prepared to be crucified to attest the perfection of my art. I dislike to hear of any stray heroics on the prowl for me.