November is a mausoleum, grey as closet dust.
The novel The Colony of Unrequited Dreams is a book that gleefully uses canards to make you think it is about one thing when it is really about something else.
(I) The child was happy. She punched the TV.
An automatic needs a guy It’s Monday; “What’s to do?” Open fire and spray some hell Kill a crowd or two
We are acid in his face He’s disfigured in his rage
I tried to write a prayer. I didn’t have success.