It was drenched green. The gazetteer absconded with verisimilitude and we were left in this wasteland clenching our drooping marigolds. The villain left vanilla footprints and the abecedarian was stuck on E. Something sticky dripped down our hot backs and commingled, congealed, with our sweat. We were a prize for the ants and bees, but they all disappeared earlier than expected during the sixth extinction. What did you call this again? This slow molasses death spiral? You had a term for it that I thought was so appropriate, but I forgot it. In the end what difference did it make? You said it made none.
“I’ve never liked the idea of originality, and so my whole life I’ve always written by taking other texts, inhabiting them in some way so I can do something with them.”