Salamandrine, My Kid

The twittering machine lies in its crib, rehabilitating its connections. It nails up its habitation, darts up its habillement, it letters its joints, limbs, pistons, limpid injectors for easy filling stations, for stations of, for remote and E-Z filing. It files under...

Garden

Now that night she said we had to go dancing, but first we had to put on dresses. A blue dress for me, a black one for her. They came from the sink as she was straining lettuce. And she showed me how to put on the dresses smoothly and kissed my forehead ironically,...