Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe

She began singing in imitation after a taut flax cord brushed across the spine of one of the long saws, and the others followed suit. The sawyers & hauliers downed tools, retreating to their trucks until the cacophony dwindled & calmed.

I have never done anything by accident. My every action is a machination furthering the baleful plot I formulated while the surgeon extracted me. You catch me smugly smirking as I bandage a papercut, intentionality oozing with the blood.

Generic girl-presents from men who no longer believe they can imagine what I might want.
(.. are an improvement, and can scent me so strongly with coconut that I become immersed in the memory of being five years old at a hotel bar, soothingly dim inside another hot day.)

The character who bit gently at her forearm as I do was, unsurprisingly, in the early throes of a cannibalistic transformation.

[...]saliva-etched channels crossing her ceramic pillow[...]
[...]with Sabbatic throat, perfected by[...]
[...]pressing against the glass's cracked lip[...]

A single majestic boar, hulking, drooling, sinuous of gait, has notched a full third of all hunting casualties since the early 14th century. Now elderly, she nestles her scarred belly into the bones & pine branches carpeting the lodge she claimed in 1883 and prepares to receive supplicants.

The scar from that October shin wound is settling into a perfect inverted exclamation mark, double-trismégiste.

Ephemerally eeling.

I've been prescribed something to spray up my nose that has a winter conservatory scent: staidly floral, but also reminiscent of inoffensive fertilizer & low-impact pest-control measures.

Watched the moon's shell grow back in such an icy wind, every gust biting right through the boyar's-cloak layers of blanket draped 'round my shoulders. A mooncalf cheerily gawping & shivering.

I wormed my belly across raw beams into the eaves, head low in deference to the shingle nails, to retrieve a paralytically frightened cat from an insulation crevice. The necessity of spelunking can abruptly manifest in one's home.

It's my birthday. I feel grim & decrepit. I want my mouth to emit spindly, quick-melting ice structures with every noise: tiny diamonds with my breath, mazily interwoven sculptures when I attempt a tonally veering sprawl of a pronouncement & start laughing before I can finish.

If you ever begin to succumb to the absurd but pervasive feeling that European comics are inherently rarified, please remember that Moebius once described Baldazzini, a man who devoted several pages of a grotesquely racist porn comic to Lara Croft's crippling insecurity over the modest size of her cock, as "an angel who allows us to glimpse the dazzling dream of our desires."

A gym in which every routine is designed to prepare its patrons' bodies to withstand inevitable careless usage by possessing spirits. (The obvious pun is both eye-rollingly gauche & wincingly mordant under the circumstances, grounds for a one-week ban.)

I'm gasping & gullible, guttering & hungry, but the ghost who needs nothing listens as I listen and we confer later on.

(Honestly, the catalog doesn't convey how beautiful this stuff is any better than my photos did. If you'll be in Philadelphia before the end of March, see this. Free on Sundays or if you go with me.)

Advising PAFA to comb their contracts for loopholes that'll let them retain the shadows of Rina Banerjee's sculptures when their casters are returned.

If I ever allow the city to synecdochically penetrate & exsanguinate me as the year begins, I'll also ask that you let me play it off as a slip, if only for insurance purposes.