I wrote back:
There is no sign.
Burma is shaved.
Each hour of sleep is worth $455,000.
Showers of anonymity are expelled from their universities.
A mosquito like an iPod plays postpunk tunes in your ear.
There are no signs. Mel Gibson remains seated. The otter’s lips are sealed.
I digest the burrito one grain of rice at a time.
Famous families prepare for Thanksgiving, making use of
– local freeways
– big-box stores
– internet commerce
Mewling and ruthless, I “rip” the songs off a Compact Disc.
I am searching for an uncompact disc. Something expansive, unbreakable, and hopefully not habit-forming.
A Laser Disc.
J.R.R. Tolkien remains dead.
C.S. Lewis inhabits a different heaven.
Mysterious Failings — 27