I Like The Idea Of Trying To

Perhaps The Window Is Not A Sun But An Asterisk, Interrupting The Grammar Of The Sky, With Me Sitting Below It Like A Footnote.

It Had Not Been A Long Journey, But The Memory Of It Filled Her Like An Infection. She Had Felt Tethered By Time To The City Behind Her, So That The Minutes Stretched Out Taut As She Moved Away, And Slowed The Farther She Got, Dragging Out Her Little Voyage.

I Differ With Myself Then Agree, Like The Rock That Was Broken And Cemented Together. I Change My Opinion.

While Yes We Can Both Agree The Sudden Recovery Of This Footage Smells Not A Little, And That We Appear To Be Bits Of Tinfoil-on-string To Some Malevolent Government Kitten, Yes Yes Yes But, Borlu, However They've Come By This Evidence, This Is The Correct Decision.

The Problem With Most Genre Fantasy Is That It's Not Nearly Fantastic Enough. It's Escapist, But It Can't Escape.