Poor Mojo's Newswire

... As Wycliffe translated Gensis II.7:

"Therfor the Lord God formede man of the sliym of erthe, and brethide in to his face the brething of lijf; and man was maad in to a lyuynge soule."

So, we may see man's life itself as posthumous, after the earth, and the breath of life is in man's face.

Is it fair to say that a thing here has ended? Is it fair to say that you should hold on to your divine breath?

I dare include myself in this statement (though it be slightly etymologically askew): We are all of us posthumous, and all of us held in the breath of God. ...

...Puella dips the pin in the ink then pokes Anson. Dip and poke. Dip and poke. Dip and poke. Using a damp rag, Puella wipes away the excess ink. Anson talks nonstop while Puella pokes and pokes and pokes mild-eyed and silent. After hours pass, the room becomes quiet except for the sound of two sets of lungs inhaling and exhaling in response to one another. And hours after that, a blue whale materializes bloody and black on Anson's arm. Puella wraps the whale in white bandages....

... She's been seized
by these seizures,
after overexposure to
strobes shining
epileptic suns, ...

... What do you think you'll use it for anyway? Storage? Baking? Holding bottles of wine? It's ridiculous, you know, this line of thought. That thing'll get covered in mountains of shit, you'll never be able to find your keys, and it'll be this one giant dunghill of shitbombs before you've had it for a total of two weeks. Good luck getting to that electric bill. You might want to store that in the overstuffed file drawers you got on sale at CB2 since they were, like, super cool last fall.

Idiot. ...