He Wasted A Lot Of Time In The Indoor Super-Store Under The Closing Time Lighting-Flash.

He wanted to watch a 'Simpsons' episode on mute for a paper he always wanted to write, and we were thinking in paranoid -- running out of time -- before the gates closed down and the escalators stopped, and they'd come out to start cutting.

You Used To Hole Me.

Ode To Autumn, Page 69.

In an S&M bar in Plymouth, Massachusetts, the 50-ft. woman straddles your face and defecates 17,000 scrabble letters, fertilizing the fallow fields of your imagination.

And a new American style is born.

Vegatively Shunner, Page 286 + 287.

"A trait. There are folks in our organization who think of what you have ... what you can do ... as a talent or an ability or even a kind of glitch."

"I also know that you didn't drop out because you were stupid; you dropped out because you didn't fit. In that way, you are like every other tranny I've ever met."

Fugitive From A Centrifuge, Page 24.

"I'm trying to describe to her how beautiful the sunlight is when it strikes a particular skyscraper in the late afternoon, but without using the words beautiful, sunlight, skyscraper, or late afternoon."

Brett Anderson : "Love Is Dead".

Nothing ever goes right
Nothing really flows in my life
No one really cares if no one ever shares my care
People push by with fear in their eyes in my life.

Love is Dead.

The telephone rings, but no one ever thinks to speak to me
The traffic speeds by, but no one's ever stopped too late
Intelligent friends don't care in the end, believe me.

Love is Dead.

And plastic people with imaginary smiles exchanging secrets at the back of their minds.
Plastic people. Plastic people.

Nothing ever goes right
Nothing really flows in my life
No one really cares if this horror's inside my head.

People push by with fear in their eyes in my life.

Love is Dead. Love is Dead.
Love is Dead. Love is Dead.
Love is Dead. Love is Dead.

And all the lies that you've given us
And all the things things that you said

And all the lies that you've given us
Blow like wind in my head.

So I Tracked My Way Through Their Belongings.

Glorious spent-up stuff.

Victory!

What made it possible was hurt and guilt and the way I couldn't feel my fingers anymore.

A Pile Of Eight Identical Phone Books Next To The Door.

She can tell from the walk-sounds and camera pans, that it's a girl coming down the corridor, pretending to be a song.

Daydreaming.

Your New Haircut Brings Out Your Old Face.

It makes it bigger.

You look like you have elephantitis.

Mister And Aversa Have Two Daughters.

They love their daughters very much.

But they want a son, too.

Mrs. Aversa is expecting a baby.

Maybe it's a boy.

It's Not Up To Her To Understand Why Those Vowels Came Out Of His Mouth.

Their words splatter on the hangar floor.

Smile-flattened, the propellant-fuel guard says something about inevitability and broken prophylactics, and her face dries to a halt.