in my neighborhood

I asked the future why it was not as good as it used to be.

It said it could see the diacritical marks on my words when I spoke.

I said: I saw one of Dali’s giraffes eat Magritte’s green apple.

The future said: Stop filling the air with words.

“On the eighth day of the rest of my life, I began to wonder if this was really the rest of my life or just a continuation of the same one. I had so little to go on.”

— Miranda July / “Mon Plasir”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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