“Receptacle, help me,” said the baby. That's what it said to its cradle.
Screaming typed behind on an inflatable wave shape.
It looked like a form breaking out of a spreadsheet.
The scraping casually fizzed. A TV pulled from meat's
prolapse is a reason for salads. On a Ghost Ship,
the unintentional transition from a man working at
his desk to odorous sludge on his office chair, “some loose
ends, baby, I'm just really really relishing surrounding myself with.”
Surround yourself with going away – a means of being stored.
The coma's farawayness, which soon mounts further into a
Jenga coma of storing dropping and dripping blank centrifugal effluence.
“All the faded languages in our Junk Mail would have themselves
eroded indoors on the ocean floor.” Transfusion bodily, from the
chair to the door as a combination of collecting bits of burn and
the imminent talon on the doorknob: maleficent nerves hacking away
at the heart of a paintball. The ocean tasty from corporate littering.
Look out over it: a canvas on which the painter couldn't have
better depicted hungry scrabbling rats motivating the movements
of an exotic robot dancer ... Also – if you look further, wider – a potato,
cracked by the spring inside a daemon.