His other hand enters my space with fingers out
like he’s flying or the birds are flying or we’re flying or the truck is
flying; we’re birds now and I still can’t get this shit lit.
On Exhibitionism by Joe Bonomo
The tiny flat at 102 Edith Grove in west Chelsea, London, is located in a district that was derided, centuries ago, as the “World’s End.” The name still seems apt: from the looks of things, I could push my fist through a water-damaged wall pretty easily, but I’m scared of what I might find living behind it.
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Dislocation by Verity Sayles
I never told him I imagine spines like necklaces.
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