. . .

Pigment Ink For Mr. Drama-Pants.

Big-scaled!

(Very raw.)

Steamed off of Bollywood and the forward-thoughts of globe-loving all-nights of acid-house.

. . .

Bi-Metal Elm Relish, Page 179 + 180.

"That is the part of the story that is so unbelievable that I don't believe it."

I Was Nervous Being Pulled Out By Old Men And Student Girls With Unbearably Red T-Shirts.

Words against words (against words).

This is graphic prophecy.

A gibberish of peace.

. . .

Bi-Metal Elm Relish, Page 149.

When you are trying to figure out a difficult problem -- such as the problem of trying to get your brother unhypnotized so as not to be placed into the hands of a greedy man disguised as a receptionist -- it is often helpful to discuss the problem with other people in order to come up with a quick and useful solution.

. . .

"It's Not Me," He Said.

A whistle out of his neck.

"It's not me," he said.

The top of his head, wrong-warped records.

"It's not me," he said.

Tubs of sores cratered the back of his hands.

"It's not me," he said, pulling out the mayor's itinerary.

Bi-Metal Elm Relish, Page 15 + 16.

I once loved a woman, who for various reasons could not marry me. If she had simply told me in person, I would have been very sad, of course, but eventually it might have passed. However, she chose instead to write a two-hundred-page book, explaining every single detail of the bad news at great length, and instead my sadness has been of impossible depth.