Pompadour

like wildflowers opening in the dead of night--splitting to reveal

The title coupled up with your signature makes me think of intelligence agencies for some reason, but on its own it sounds to be very vague--not that it's a bad ...

summer monsoon tells me he is the man kissing gravel tongues, the man being raped by the city's dull counsel-- wearing the shalwar kameez with far too many patches to ...

it is autumn let us play queen tragedies do not wait for occurrence but we shall shingle their path we shall wait because patience is a tree glowing orange in ...

every twilight is a monarchy, this I have grown to understand; the night is not an assassin, and the heather lapping your feet is not a ghost. I am sure ...

midnight kicks in at two a.m. with your head against my shoulder, television a muted sepia amidst colourings of rain, and wind, and frost, and sleet, and downpour and-- weather ...

Sheer force, she said, will lead us straight along the highway--if you can drive fast enough, maybe--into oblivion. And Afterwards? he asked, eyes hesitant, cheekbones cutting through his face like ...

The last thing I remembered was the Shiny. It was pretty shiny and stuff. And stuff.

she is the basket ball team with pink lips. Now this. This is literature. XDD

3/10 It's a spaceship in a quagmire of a sentence; it does not interest me, nor does it give me any sense of direction. For a beginning, it does't fulfil ...

5/10 It doesn't hook me, nor does it give me a clear visual of what-do-I-expect. It's also a drab introduction to a commonplace fact--where there are cities there are lights. ...

It's all very vague; I can't pinpoint an exact age, but I'd have to say ... eleven? I wrote a novella back then, completed it, then abandoned writing until I ...

If you're reading this ... hold on a chapter; I need to take a shower.

Face first falling into graves: Unpleasant.

He jumped. There was no parachute.