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A Subtle Jingle Ascending in Scale: Your Bluetooth headphones are alerting you to a dying battery with a gentle cry for sustenance.
I’m dead (claw machine accident, I’m sure it was in the papers) and now that I’ve spent enough time floating around, I’m ready to respond.
It’s the very best thing I’ve ever written. Or, it’s the worst book ever typed into existence. Which one it is, I can’t say for sure.
When you cupped me in your hands and held me up to the light, I thought, “Okay, geologist!” I was excited to go home with you.
Guests are forbidden from bringing presents. Jazz is a gift in itself.
6:45 AM: Wind speed in the air is currently ten miles per hour, which is something only relevant to me.
Allowing us to sell your data helps us serve you ads relevant to your interests. Also, the orb is ravenous.
Yeah, Mama and I have been good. Just the daily grind, trying to bang out those milestones. You know how it is. Starting to roll over, yep.
Holding a fair after the Windowpane Smashing Festival wouldn’t work either because, well, the windowpanes are all smashed, obviously.
70 ft: Screw it, I’m just going to wave. Social norms be damned! 65 ft: Shit, he’s definitely not looking at me.
That’s right, I’d be afraid if I were you too. Afraid of having my actions held up to intellectually rigorous ethical scrutiny!
An avid motorcycle rider, Ben loved the freedom of the road. And before you jump to conclusions, no, that’s not how he died.