March 27, 2011

Olden Infolds, Page 164.

Costume drama, thought Keith. Awful old load of old balls. The class system innit.

Posted by dean at 02:28 AM

March 26, 2011

. . .

  

Posted by dean at 01:48 AM

March 25, 2011

Olden Infolds, Page 133.

Go too far in all directions. Extremity upon extremity, and then more extremity, and then more.

Posted by dean at 02:32 AM

March 23, 2011

Olden Infolds, Page 129.

Across the street was a dead house whose windows were corrugated metal. On its door was a white sign bearing red letters: DANGEROUS STRUCTURE. This was her body. This was her plan.

Posted by dean at 03:23 AM

March 20, 2011

Mantras, 1,000,000.

My name is unpronounceable -- a lattice binary sequence -- so elegantly long that it threatens pi's arrogant claim on eternity.

I am the size of a city -- at least in terms of times past -- when a city housed mere millions of souls -- before techtropolises spanned whole planets -- and the word city became an ironic term.

I am powered by the stars both near and far -- energy different and flavorful -- delicious fragrant rays of stellar joy -- by which I stay aloft -- proudly coruscate.

I am an orbiting citadel.

I am heavenly force.

I am dead alloy made vivid life.

I am lonely.

Posted by dean at 03:00 AM

March 13, 2011

Trash : [X] 2010.

Posted by dean at 04:44 AM

March 12, 2011

Olden Infolds, Page 77.

'Quilted in guilt.'

Posted by dean at 09:49 PM

March 11, 2011

. . .

Posted by dean at 02:50 AM

March 05, 2011

Grown, Decadent Hound.

'But he can't shake that feeling, that weight, that, that, what's the word again?

Empathy!

Empathy, right. He just can't get rid of it! That darn connectedness. It's painful having that sewn into your skin. So he tries to think of other things on his way to the makeshift office. Like.

Like. Uhhhh.

Like who would win in a fight, a werewolf or a minotaur?

Harder, still, the pebbles and debris underfoot bring the pit back into his stomach.

He doesn't like it.

He thinks of straight lines. And wavy lines. Diagonal lines. And squares. The random needlessness of the images he hopes will make some headway towards ennui.

At last the memory of a particularly uninteresting conversation with an old co-worker brings him back into the fold of indifference and boredom.

He shudders off the unpleasantness, and finally, happily, is once again as useless as a newborn baby.'

Posted by dean at 04:57 AM

March 04, 2011

Olden Infolds, Page 67.

But for the black swan, there is no escape velocity.

Posted by dean at 02:50 AM

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