The princess is picked apart rather ravenously; there is no heir to the throne. Three months of flight academy. The world now runs on a unified economy of catseye marbles. Locus lotuses. Ten-volt tenable tent poles and a blue traffic cone. The George array is running low on cyan ink; a replacement order has been confirmed. Two-factor authentication code: 85S0W; time is running out. The idea is to get you into a FOMO chokehold. Salisbury steak dinners and your daily medication. Ever since I’ve taken an generic-brand precision utility knife and removed the last three days from each month in my calendar (spare February), all has been tranquil and bliss.
The Californian coronary Calypso; toss. Placated plecos, in the limelight. Aubergine shadow and aubergine gloss, new shoes, a new skirt. Newsprint sandwich wrapping, homemade potato chips, and those tasseled toothpicks. A lone, not-alone crow flying overhead. The daily intake of smog amongst all else, in the winter season. The first step into a store you’ve never entered before; a sickening, queasy feeling. Model trains and model planes, right-aligned text on street shop signs. An itch, inside. Your entire life up until this point has been a mere prologue for this moment: at long last, your opportunity to have a turn replacing the bulbs in an firelift–without a harness. Don’t bungle it, you cunt.
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