SHORT
If only to have, for just one hour I’ve always said, one of those giant twirling balls on the end of a chain that makes grieving widows of the wives of the men it meets, and orphans of their children.
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You got it all wrong, he said. All straight lines and shadows – where’re the demons?
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In a pool of moonlight in a bedroom, a half-dressed man reclining on the bed, watching her drop articles of clothing to the floor.
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The bolts fall off his neck and my wig begins to itch and he pisses on a pumpkin in the garden because he can’t walk.
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He examines her bosom, warts protruding from it like quartz nuggets on a pewter sheet.
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I have a pale, wretched face, an injured hand, but your breath tastes purple to me and far from everywhere.
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