'When the corners of the landscape press in ever closer and angels utter profanities...' I heard this on the bus, or else I'm starting to talk to myself. 'When that happens,' the voice went on, 'it's time to get off.' So I got off. The vehicle was chockful of pirate grins and understudies for villains for the next audition. There was also a screenwriter writing pages of action, by which I mean there was nothing on the page apart from a few rudimentary pen-scratchings. What would prehistoric cave-dwellers made of them? Evidence of the intelligent life to come. I peered over his shoulder as the bus made no provision of leper-squints. I couldn't see any drawings of mammoths at all.
The pavement cracks were wider today. Just makes the likelihood of being eaten by bears so much the greater. It would give me an excuse for avoiding my talk on Grammar and Creativity. Sorry, I'm being digested by Bruin. But pavement life is full of canoodling pigeons spattering everywhere and crooning their half-finished numbers, trying to invent jazz. Something flew overhead. I could feel the wing flap and the bad language.
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