And, since the computer itself will be immersed in old sloppy-joe and rotting paella, the vent ports will close up with grease and wet rice and the temperature of the internals will rise a few degrees.
The thing that watches keeps chewing the air. The sound of its voice is like the husky clatter of corn stalks in the late fall – hungry. Hungry and damned.
Garner – all bone and sinew, an easy smile and tired eyes – had leaned out his window (maybe just to get air) and then (all bone and sinew) caught momentary flight...
The gutter is stained with lives...
...the paper itself will come apart, will dis-integrate, will allow itself to let go of itself, each piece becoming a new entity apart from the whole.
There is a crease in my sleeve... what does it prophecy?
It was the result of a brokenness in his body.
He would sit there, with his tight frown, his pent-up bowels, his shoulders narrow again like a boy’s, his paper-thin skin shaking and he’d wait.
Would you beat Old Franky like a rented mule rather than just let Old Franky be Old Franky?