AT THE VERY CENTER OF YOU IS NOTHING by Alice M.
The masks were thin, pliable. They attached to her skin, seamless. They emoted for her, always appropriate, guaranteed to fetch the reaction she wanted.
The masks were thin, pliable. They attached to her skin, seamless. They emoted for her, always appropriate, guaranteed to fetch the reaction she wanted.
Those twins out of St. Paul are doing some live podcast tour about living without lungs but that’s easy, the no lungs thing.
The Weatherman describes the snow as dumping. Feathery bundles fall against all things and accumulate against all things, and besides that: the grey, and the cawing of invisible birds.
It was exciting and sad and over too fast and underwhelming and amazing, all at the same. It was all of it. It was beautiful.
His physique is quite distressing. It is not something I like to observe.
Like anything, Hot Wheels has a language. Like any language you encounter, you want to make this one your own.
At sixteen I went ocean swimming. I swam so deep that the land turned into a thin grey line. The ocean turned into hills like blue elephants.
Oh, the bear came with the house, I lied. The Lord hates a lying tongue, the pastor said.
“It’s not that it disappears,” he said. “It’s just deep. It’s like a cliff. It goes all the way down. But it’s something new, Rico.”
People—and I mean even absolute strangers—they’ll just talk and talk and talk and they expect you to listen to their whole life story. Have you ever experienced this? Do you know what I mean?