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The ghost haunts a subway bench at 13th Street until the fluorescent tubes wear out. The ghost haunts the sidewalk flower beds at Market & 38th until the ornamental cabbages desiccate.

Brushed hands with the vet tech as I handed him a carrier-full of ill cat and, later, after hearing a relatively rosy prognosis, realized it'd been the first time I'd touched someone in nearly three months. That's an awful long time to go without checking whether I'm a ghost yet.

Sat weeping in bed having finally escaped a pseudo-dream of pure unbearable sound/texture, smooth-rasping cotton-corium-contrail-?-?, the sort of nightmare I must have had as an infant who always woke up inconsolable.

Perch boosted

Bit that finial clean off. Snap! Gone. One less orb on your manse.

Suddenly I dove under the bed and gently bundled a stunned mouse into my handkerchief. That brings me even with the cats at 1-all for the season.

Chain-chewing Sichuan peppercorns to hoax my tongue into reporting an unexpected frost, admonishing the incredulous rest of me not to doubt it.

Emitting frequent gamma-ray bursts to the detriment of my houseplants.

She cut me off four years ago(, worried, I suspect, that I might influence her effete son), but in this morning's dream she told me about the Dister, a type of dog bred for antipathy & muscularity over centuries to create an animal that'd attempt to destroy all other life on sight.

In a better night where you are is serene, restful, & I'm out sweating on a runoff-wrecked wasteland heath 60 miles from nowhere in a crowd whose devout love of explosions, unsullied by patriotism, has us ready to blow up the whole sky.

My album of the year so far is Moor Jewelry's True Opera. A way through useless bitter fugs of dread, over&over. Punk, I guess, jagged, I guess, but every instrument unavoidable & infinitely textured always like a comforting weight of sea-eroded concrete.

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My album of the year so far is the new Kaatayra, Só Quem Viu o Relâmpago à Sua Direita Sabe. Woven sunshower-metal roar about dissolving into the trees.

Since turning 30, every period of particular crisis, regardless of length, has turned exactly one of my hairs white. I'm up to 3 on my scalp and 1 above my eye, but I haven't found a logic behind that distribution.

In the dream we spoke to each other as mountaineers. We called out piton positions, admitted we'd started too late in the day and were succumbing to cold & fatigue. Our bodies knelt warm indoors, nailing shirts to the floor until each was outlined by hundreds of dull steel heads.

Found some wild brambles and ate a few ripe, sour berries the birds had missed. If I've made a tragic fruit-identification error and am now dying, keep it to yourself.

Envious of the blazing intensity of this fellow's moiré aura.

It's actually super easy for the entire contents of my head to slosh out. I don't know why these folkloric peasants get so smug about it.

Surely anyone who's worked in an academic library has considered methods for disabling the safety mechanisms of the rolling stacks.
Whimsically at first, while plotting byzantine assassinations with a colleague just returned from a budget meeting, then with gremlinic fascination while idling at an unapproached reference desk, then to sate an idle thanatic longing hours past sunset in a winter evening shift.

Avoiding other walkers means meeting broken buildings.
There'll have been a gap in which this gardener's shed was plantless, before the ceiling collapsed and residents of the shattered glasshouse next door crept back in. Like squatting the hospital your grandparents were born in.

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Eldritch Café

Une instance se voulant accueillante pour les personnes queers, féministes et anarchistes ainsi que pour leurs sympathisant·e·s. Nous sommes principalement francophones, mais vous êtes les bienvenu·e·s quelle que soit votre langue.

A welcoming instance for queer, feminist and anarchist people as well as their sympathizers. We are mainly French-speaking people, but you are welcome whatever your language might be.