This promises to make for an interesting read.
129 more words
Eastward, southward, there are no more gardens. Every scrap of land has a building on it. Light shears between blackened towers in the east, scraping against the rain-washed sky.
Check out this note of Henry Miller calling Dali a prick:
Priceless. By the same token, apparently Henry Miller was a douche.
Kickin’ it old-school with some Henry James re-reading.
175 more words
I scarce know how to put my story into words that shall be a credible picture of my state of mind; but I was in these days literally able to find a joy in the extraordinary flight of heroism the occasion demanded of me.