Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Friday, April 20, 2012


He sampled the future in echoes of the past, made are were, before is even was.
He transgressed, then transgressed again. He overslept, shamefully overslept, his world reduced to the space between two sheets. Unsustainable, unacceptable as an adult. Frequently achieved. 
He did a wonderful impersonation of a reasonable man.
His mouth was a crooked scar on a plump face.
Lopsided and tightly incised. Shaving, he looked sullenly into his reflection, then cast his eyes down to the basin. The water was black, which is as natural a colour for water as any other. His mood was similarly dark, a tint so familiar, so frequently applied as to become its natural tone too. He longed for a lightness.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012


The book I picked up and found my Self in read thus:

I cannot be certain how long I stood in the same place, here on ice, in stasis, waiting for instructions on how to tame the words that flew from me and create with them a narrative of some reliability. Most likely it was squezzillion times infinity. I felt the urge to go and do things. I had the words and language surging crazily around me leaving neon green vapour trails, but they never seemed to form into a coherent and vital plot. I began to hallucinate. The moon waxed and waned on numerous occasions, which means something in your world, but was out of sync with nature and the fundamentals of time in mine.