Major wedgie action at the gym: Her ass looked like the letter V.

Cover band at Third Place Books attempts to pull off Violent Femmes: Oy!

The moon slid behind and below a small, not-quite-clean break in the clouds, turning the sky into a hyperflourescent tumor.

When I say a not-quite-clean break, think of cotton balls when you begin to pull them apart. They become much thinner in the middle but remain gauzily connected. It was that kind of cloudbreak.

The moon backlit every vascular strand of dirt, every water-molecule wisp. These rivulets and smoke-plumes went bright and dark at once — brighter than the surrounding sky, darker than the moon.

I watched the moon move up into this veined and tangled opening: Another moon-birth — through dark matter, through an unmistakable but inexcisable lesion.

The vase of rotting flowers next to me smells just like rotting flowers.

(This is my second American Sentence today. I can’t stop writing the damn things.)

Schmutzie has given me a name, and I have decided to go by said name on this blog.

I like it. It’s Ceridwen. Raise no objections, unless you want to rumble with Schmutzie and me. Or at least with me. I can’t really speak for Schmutzie.

(I’ll leave it to you to figure out what it means — for it does mean — as well as how to pronounce it.)