Ever have a dream about someone who’s in deadly peril and you wake up in the middle of the night hyperventilating— but what you’re gonna call them and warn them… What?
Parade through Red Square with inflatable, floating models of housing-units, 1924.
Submit to the tyranny of the butthole
Ms Emma Peel (she is in constant motion)
The sort of dream that lingers for hours after waking, making everything seem syrupy and drugged and nightmarish.
I found your ID, coins and a pen— things from your pocket— scattered on the floor. You were in the kitchen and I couldn’t enter, I couldn’t see you. But I heard the back door open and knew It had come in. You don’t know it’s there, and I can’t warn you.
Already sold the film rights to that last comic.
Should have kept script approval; they’ve already fucked it up. The kittens are North Koreans now, and the banana is a chesty blonde spy who’s the love interest.
A cafe suggestion for cat names: Katniss and Peeta.
There’s a lot going on there. Take your time.