What are trees made of?

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biscuit worlds and biro smell

I am in a town called Linda. The sky is the same colour as the ground and the roofs. The man sitting opposite me ate too much at lunch. I am guessing this is the reason that he has unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his fly right there in front of me. We are driving through the countryside, cutting across the dense trees pinned to the ground like a mass of quills on the back of a porcupine.

I hate to be cliché, but I can’t help it. I am a teenager in a woman’s body, and the cliché of being cliché stifles me like a wet sponge. You write a metaphor sometimes, and it is dead on the page like an image of a corpse. When I say a tree is like a quill, or sometimes a trumpet, or sometimes a crooked old man bent double by time, or sometimes whiskers or foxes’ or rabbits’ tails, or a stripper’s legs, or a dense funereal entourage following the coffin of someone well-loved, or a buzzcut, or a billowing petticoated skirt, or a peacock’s tail, or zebra’s legs, or a lollipop, or fine rain, or tangled hair, or thrashing octopus arms, or a church spire, or a bearded face, or a silent winter, how can that be so evocative? Surely the closest thing to a tree is a tree, not a quill or a trumpet or a man bent double.

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Porco vacca: Random lines from random lines in forty sleepless hours in Venice

Ice cream
I also got a new pen, and I think you would agree that I have put it to good use in drawing this very important figure.

Two days became one in Unholy Matrimony

Tokens and photographs

I wear my Casio like a medal

We stood on the bridge, ants staring into a mirage

The water stank of piss, sewage rolling over smooth pebbles and stones, piebald glissando

gloss

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