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“When it was hungry,” the old man continued. “It became hunger, until it ate. When it was tired, it became exhaustion, until it slept. This is how it was, because at the time, there was nothing else.”
He asked to give his new ideas back, to return to how he used to be, before he knew he was Monkey. But the sky did not listen.
The drama below now framed by the harsh geometry of his iron sights.
The context of the scene had changed. It had a new, unseen director. Him.
Don’t assume things, because sometimes you’re wrong, and if you’re really wrong, you could die.
A McMansion: Eight rooms, four car garage, three stories – all bizarre angles and huge windows. About five different shades of beige. The whole thing dropped straight in the middle of three acres of pristine Pacific Northwest woodlands, like the forest itself had sprouted a single, glorious suburban wart.
He committed to that dropkick like a marriage.
John warned himself away from that course of thought.
What good is thinking when you’re doing something this stupid already?
She no longer had eyes, just two pits dug into the foundation of reality.
The darkness in there sends some kind of vile circuitry along the dirt, a mass of black pathways rapidly forking at right angles, reaching out to close off her escape.
