Sad, fat boy in pirate hat. Long, old, dented, copper—colored Ford. How many traits must a thing have

Discomfort marks the boundary. One early symptom was the boundary… The invention of hunger. I could use energy. To serve.

So these are the hills of home. H… nearly subliminal. To see them is… double, hear bad puns delivered wi… An untoward familiarity. Rising from my sleep, the road is…

You may “have” sex— but those round sink—holes beneath the off—ramps, scabbed with whatever

“must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itsel… could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition.

We know the story. She turns back to find her trail devoured by birds. The years; the

spider on the cold expanse of glass, three stories high rests intently and so purely alone. I’m not like that!

Ventriloquy is the mother tongue. Can you colonize rejection by phrasing your request, “Me want?”

With whom do you leave yourself during reveries? The one making coffee or doing the driving—

What if I were turned on by seemi… or “extrapolate?” What if I maneuvered conversation… words? Perhaps the excitement would come…

Shooting pleasures Ok’d by My being seen For Or as

You’re it. It is (you are) an error with an arsenal of disguises,