And As If Reporting Some Felony To

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

Do As You Like With Me. I'm Your Parcel. I Have Only Our Address On Me. Open Me, Or Readdress Me.

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.