It has been a bit since I’ve sat down for a Friday report. This one actually qualifies as Saturday morning, I suppose. And then a bit later as Saturday afternoon. So I guess that streak continues, technically. I can’t say for certain there would have been a Saturday report for that matter, but there are …
There is no moral to this story at all. But there’s a point. There’s always a point. I had forgotten, that first bar. That first one. I forgot that shambling philosopher who burned down villages and lamented his accomplishments to anyone that would buy him a beer. I caught a whiff though, somewhere, recently. Some …
Everywhere, the paint is brown and drying. The walls are thinning, and the plot continues to gain substance, solidify into some turbid sap, something viscous, something akin to water, something like skin on the surface, all too close to drowning. He hates lavender and he hates butterflies. But there is nothing else to tell. I …
“Why are you trying to shatter my heart on every page?” Stephen asked George, to general laughs from the audience, before conversation turned to politics. Why are all of the stories always about the darkest things? Why are we interested in the darkest things? I remember one time pondering on the nature of television fame, …
Just a reminder of where my head is at on any given Friday.