he sat in the indefinite interim
with that stuck sand that did not dislodge.

She was an hourglass full of wet sand. Clumped wet sand, too impacted to fall.
She was an hourglass overfilled with sand, grains packed in close with no room to move.

in the reeking light


on the white breeze, blood. debris, dropped bark on the hot grass, the shed scabs of trees.

She didn't seem designed to sit in chairs. She kept getting up, leaning thinly about the room, tossing off remarks.

she had a fridge full of half-eaten things, things that looked to have been bitten and discarded.

these hard hearts /

a world too wide and violent

When they weren't racing, she would switch to breaststroke sometimes, and he would fall back to watch her slow frog-legging in front of him, and it was as if in that wide, wide dance was the birth of the world.

Sebastian stood: an unembarassed target, and no saint.

I like Deleuze’s remark on novelists who: “characterise the individual as a flow of events and not as a person: ‘…the unique chance that this or that combination has been drawn. Individuation without subject.’”

solar plexus supernova

the broth of God
the spice triad

the broth of God
the spice triad