I made a new website (with xml feed) for slightly longer pieces—please follow the link in my profile, or go to maosboo dot com, or, alternatively, descend into your own internal lightless despair
All conversation requires us to construct a platform of shared understandings, but, during most conversations, I can’t take my eyes away from how far it is down over the sides of the platform, and the wind whipping around the platform's supports sounds far too much like laughter
On the day our son turned fifteen, he jumped out of the window on the third floor, and he has hung motionless in the air up there ever since, covered in leaves in the autumn, snow in the winter, feathers in the spring, and, in the summer, his poor skin gets so agonisingly burnt
The conman says that they are not real, that there is nothing staring from the tops of cell phone towers, that you should not believe every whisper that reaches your ear as if they were standing right behind you
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a door, that, when I turn to face the shadows, is not there, but that, when I turn back, I see again in my peripheral vision, but, this time, the door is open, and the shadows have gone
Where is the light coming from? I can't see a source. Oh. How did you get in here? Do you see the light too? How come there are no words in the light? I really need the words—do you know them? What! Where did the light go?
Keyhole in the trunk halfway up the tree. Keyhole in the featureless concrete wall at the edge of town. Keyhole in the underwater cave. Keyhole in the mirror, but only on the other side. Keyhole in the dark cloud on the horizon, but something is in this keyhole, and it is turning
The mime stands, with back arched and hands on hips, at the edge of the filthy bed of the sick man, miming laughter. At the exact moment that the man's mouth forms into the tight "O" of death, the mime mimes swallowing something small. The mime never dies
What I fear in the night is not what is outside, trying to get in, but, instead, what is inside trying to get out, inside my head trying to leave its prints leading into the city from whence it would never again be confined to such a small imagination
I made a new website (with xml feed) for slightly longer pieces—please follow the link in my profile, or go to maosboo dot com, or, alternatively, descend into your own internal lightless despair
It is widely recognised that it is impossible for one to write. Less well known is the fact that it is impossible for one to dream, as the imaginings of the night—of the charred field, of the sky stretched strangely by clouds, and of the things beneath—are not in any sense yours