She sits before me, sullen but hopeful, characterless, about to dissolve into tears. I squeeze her hand back, moved, no, touched by her ignorance of evil. She has one more test to pass. Do you own a briefcase?” I ask her, swallowing.
People just… disappear,” he says. “The Earth just opens up and swallows people,” I say, some what sadly, checking my Rolex. “Eerie.” Kimball yawns, stretching. “Really eerie.” “Ominous.” I nod my agreement. “It’s just”- he sights, exasperated- “futile.
Devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his hair-care products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guesses after mulling over the possibilities being Ten-X.
I want no one to escape, but even after admitting this there is no catharsis, my punishment continues to elude me and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself; no new knowledge can be extracted from my telling. This confession has meant nothing.
So…” Kimball looks at his book helplessly. “There’s nothing you can tell me about Paul Owen?” “Well.” I sigh. “He led what I suppose was an orderly life, I guess. “ Really stumped, I offer, “He…ate a balanced diet.
I tried to make meat loaf out of the girl but it becomes too frustrating a task and instead I spend the afternoon smearing her meat all over the walls, chewing on strips of skin I ripped from her body
I think the ’80s created me, in a way, when I look back on that time, but I don’t necessarily think that a lot of my choices, and a lot of things that I did, and a lot of things that happened to me – or I let happen to me – were about that decade.
I kept staring into the blackness of the woods, drawn into the darkness as I always had been. I suddenly realized how alone I was. (But this is how you travel, the wind whispered back, this is how you’ve always lived.)
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