I raise my head and grin at the city in the distance. Oh, it's lovely, these clever little specks and their enduring hives.
And I can see her more clearly, not silhouetted. It's one of those things: she'd be beautiful if she weren't a deranged monster.
My ears are starved for noises, like when you step forward, expecting ground, and you fall for a split second when it's just a little further than you knew.
For no valid reason, Twitter has identified my computer and location to suspend me from their service.
There was a nearly spherical butt churning right beside him. It was tightly bound in tweed, and it rolled back and forth merrily with each step.
She noticed a tiny person standing on the corner of the rooftop ledge. A little man in a white shirt and tie, an office drudge.
He could have read a book for the hour-long commute, listened to podcasts. But frequently they were the only two people aboard.
The pert young lab tech looked at the little old man cradled against Joya's cleavage. "How did you get him to live so long?"
Were it pursuing anything but prurient and deviant interests, I should have liked to retain you as a pen pal, perhaps twenty years ago when otherwise unencumbered by matrimony.
"I honestly thought that I was a weirdo for so long that it’s comforting to hear that others have had similar experiences."