I am ambivalent towards paper clips. I feel like I am some quasi drunken Russian man in his mid-forties who sits at his desk at the steel mill in Novosibirsk and looks at his paper clips. He picks each one up and calls it Father. “Hey Father, bind me this paper like a good worker.” he says.
Wouldn’t it be nice to have a human chair, you know like someone to sit on?
I think all those big dark green boxes that are everywhere are where the bunnies and elves hide their children.
DP stands for Dr. Pepper, not for what you think it stands for.
Majorana Fermion was a dilettante. She had studied Viva le Jive in Cuba, Navajo at Oxford, Cajun in New Orleans and cat at the USC-Irvine School for Zoology. She had travel to the fertile crescent in search of the mythic line of Abyssinian felines. There she met the great Meow Meow of Negba, a legendary street cat, known for making annoying noises after midnight and begging for kosher meat down by the hot spring. She tried in vain get an audience, but he mostly lay in the sun and flicked his tail at her.
The orange slush spills across the table cascading against my cheek like the floodwaters against a levy. My breath makes gentle waves across the spill like a zephyr on a sunny spring day. Two men stare down at me, standing like only men with military training stand. Their eyes cool and inhuman like the eyes of the dead. The eyes of these men are an organ alone with no connectivity to the brain; I know they are alive only because they blink.
