"The light of day may not hit the heart like the dark of night, but it grows like a maze in the mind in ways that the night merely begs you to look at the entrance."

"The light of day may not hit the heart like the dark of night, but it grows like a maze in the mind in ways that the night merely begs you to look at the entrance."

"Five deleted segments lined up next to the preferred monitor and began to berate Joel the engineer. He was less afraid of the deleted segments than he was of his wife. She had thrown an egg at him that morning and gotten an egg shell uncomfortably dancing near the periphery of his eye. He feared that if his wife ever blinded him, he would no longer be able to take her beauty as consolation."

Derek Beard, “Diary of a Nymphomaniac Computer Programmer” 1989

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"A million men — born to the side of history and just behind the humanity of it all — were tasked with this deleterious political position. They would wear their best hats, and match clothes with their best hats, and fix their best hats to the best of their ability. But in the end, these men were the barnacles of Presbyterian Church — men encased in the grease of their own saliva, struggling to break through with only the hair on their palms as traction. This pedestal being offered to them through the representative was merely a flouting of their predetermined place on this earth, or rather the town which they attempted to inhabit with their place of sole expected existence. These were the new pilgrims, and they had stains on their teeth that didn’t match the stains on their jacket; who came accessorized with a stinky cigar; and who brandished the ugliest toothy grins imaginable to the inhabitants of even that once savage land."

Fmr. Captain Ricky “Bayou” Lebeoux, 1888, southern Montana territory

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MARY PABST: We’re here, Max.

MAX PABST: No, not a literal place Mary.

He points to the painting beside the empty desk in the corner of the room.

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Roxy Music, “Lover”

"You could guess the nature of the relationship by anticipating the exact opposite of Flanagan’s depositions. “It was strictly sexual,” he would begrudgingly and superficially confide to the two macaroons at internal affairs who were interrogating him after the incident. “I did give her money, but I never saw her inside of the house.” It was inevitable that we were to know his lies, but what he was hoping was that we simply wouldn’t realize the extent of them. What he hadn’t surmised is how much we were inevitably going to read into the watery confessions of his opaque blue eyes with the mention of the lovely and voluptuous Veronica Pabst—for god’s sakes you could figure out the color and type of paint used on the wall of that room she was kept in by that scum-mouthed butcher’s son Pepe Valdez. Flanagan was hoping for some remorse, but there was little to be hoped for in the way of forgiveness. We had the deaths of a 16 year old prostitute and her 45 year old pimp to account for, and no known search warrants or necessary cause to back any of it up. Flanagan certainly had been in love, but there was no way of understanding the myths that perambulated and eventually enveloped the halls of the precinct. Flanagan was everything and so he was nothing. Didn’t even know she was pregnant—what a fucking putz.

"I had always taken a personal interest in these cases, the ones concerning young prostitutes, not out of any perversion, but rather out of genuine concern for the discovery of reason behind these lapses in reason. Flanagan may not have been to blame, but he certainly wasn’t talking, and he certainly hadn’t known of the baby. He wouldn’t really talk until we beat the sugary shit out of him. And that would take the time it took for Ol’ Shakes to peel an orange."

—Robert Smithsonian from From Heaven, In Deadly Arms

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