Back
    Splintering the tools that builds the house, licks the hand that feeds. Rising damp versus the collapsing desert. Waterlogged Rolodex. Four minutes have gone already. Focus, the sensation of burrowing through a mountain of hot sand. Of having to keep. Who are so unfortunate as to be taken by one of my chessmen. Victims of victimless crimes, fiction that runs like piss all the way down your leg Abacus rattles. Furrowed edges through the tunnel, popping up within the barbershoppe sweepings. Crispy high tension that runs inevitably into the dirt. Smoke-box, condensing the air with tiny escape currents. Another rusted calculator. Invoking The reversal of the magnetic poles through sublimated speckles, hundreds and thousands. Twelve anchors of Styrofoam, all buoyancy and no lead. Twenty seven kilos dragged across the room, the edges worn smooth and are starting to tremble. Cyclonepedia. Convincing people, a total lack of recollection. Tugged at their ears reflectively. Heavy guard. Instinctively, they bunched together and glared. Inlaid with squares, sixty four of them with Supa Hi Bounce rubber.
—Dan Bell