“I think she is a robot.”
“I think she is made of fiberglass and plastic.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make a very intelligent painting: I have already made 36. To look at them is to lower your IQ by fifty points.”
“I think she is the fire that shall inherit Oprah’s forest.”
“It’s true that the chameleonic philosophy of the common man churns in her hair, but there is the bald spot, the flaw, the hunk of pink exposed brain, human as any other: warding off unforeseen desires, releasing the bitter chemicals of loss into her blood.”
“Still, she walks the robot’s walk. Do you choose your robot, or does she choose you?”
“Maybe the chemicals just pile up. Maybe the chemicals char and blacken and harden over the years until you walk like that.”
“Dreams and mothers are just piles of chemicals, too, but what do hers sound like?”
“A child kneeling in a Saharan mirage, scrubbing her face with sand, scooping sand into her mouth to ward off thirst.”
“Just think how pure her blood used to be back then.”
"You know her secret ingredient is moon, right?"
"I hear she rises mornings and claws it down with her fingernails. In her giant’s hands it is bright and tiny like a baby, then she mortars and pestles it to death, scatters it fizzing into the vats: a cremation undone."
"The moon does not resist; the moon does not strive, it only reflects."
"What would happen if she tossed it out over the ocean, into all the city’s orifices like a cure? What would happen if she bathed in it? If we all did?"
"Nobody ever looks into a shot glass before they put it inside of themselves. Nobody sees how the silvered liquid reflects us doing cartwheels across the lawn in unison."
"Only the werewolves know, and only for a minute before the moon recollects itself."
“Um, guys, I think we’ve been in here way too long. Everything is starting to get way too poetic.”
Ch. 1 here
Ch. 2 here
Ch. 3 here
Ch. 4 here
Ch. 5 here
Ch. 6 here
Ch. 7 here
Ch. 8 here
Ch. 9 here
Ch. 10 here
Ch. 11 here
Ch. 12 here
Ch. 13 here
Ch. 14 here
Ch. 15 here