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On Enrico Fermi’s small, watery planet, it could be generally agreed upon, for example, that a chicken was not people, but a physicist was.
Yet, when you pricked them, they rained down ultraviolet apocalyptic hellfire on all your nice, tidy moons.
“Jee haan, but they are the same! One hunts, one runs; one chews the carrot, one chews the Sir John Hurt.
Sagrada is a study in darkness, an adoringly monogamous commitment to the gothic aesthetic. Beside Sagrada, ravens are as bright as parrots, widows are as flamboyant as cabaret dancers, and black holes suffer from crippling penumbra envy.
