Remember The Movements That Don't

A Sense Of Wrongness, Of Fraught Unease, As If Long Nails Scraped The Surface Of The Moon, Raising The Hackles Of The Soul.

I'll Never Be A Minimalist. The Fact That The Prose Is More Tightly Controlled Doesn't For A Minute Mean That It's Minimalist. I Very Much Like Arcane Words And Baroque Sentence Structure.

The Reason That I Like Sf And Fantasy And Horror Is That To Me It's The Pulp Wing Of Surrealism. That's The Aesthetic Of Undermining And Creative Alienation That I Really Go For.

The Summer Stretched Out The Daylight As If On A Rack. Each Moment Was Drawn Out Until Its Anatomy Collapsed. Time Broke Down. The Day Progressed In An Endless Sequence Of Dead Moments.

It Had Not Been A Long Journey, But The Memory Of It Filled Her Like An Infection. She Had Felt Tethered By Time To The City Behind Her, So That The Minutes Stretched Out Taut As She Moved Away, And Slowed The Farther She Got, Dragging Out Her Little Voyage.