Lettuce tangled trains stand awkward outside.
Nervous sunsets question garden transit.
In candles do hermetic bees abide.
Barley bushels gasp into a corset.
Really caught up in drawing to-day. It's one of those days I really wish I had absolutely no distractions.
I had lunch at my parents' house to-day--dinner for them--and I had some strawberry ice cream over a brownie for dessert. The ice cream was good, but the brownie has been like a rock in my stomach for hours. I'm pretty much consistently getting this reaction from chocolate. It doesn't taste good anymore, either. I'm starting to get really annoyed by how my body appears to be aging.
I read "WORKPRINT" last night, the first of the two stories in the latest Sirenia Digest. It has the best Vince Locke illustration I've seen in a long time, an interesting composition of sharp angles that seems to say something about identity and orgasms. Though the story Caitlin wrote around it went in a different direction, being an interesting meditation on the sorts of horror movies being made in the first half of the 1980s. It put me in the mood to watch a bunch of them.
The protagonist's name is Helen Farrow, though she's accidentally referred to as Sarah at one point. I always wonder how typos in the Sirenia Digest get past Spooky, Sonya, and presumably Vince Locke. But with Roger Ebert's reviews filled with typos, and several typos appearing daily on Huffington Post, I'm getting really used to professional literary media being less than perfectly edited. I just went through and corrected a bunch of typos in Venia's Travels last week--some I haven't spotted for well over a year. I'm starting to wonder if someone's gone back in time and killed a butterfly.