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The Word Variant By Samuel Beckett Imagine, your whole life a pile of words. Not even spoken. Typed. No places. No wind on the face. No smell of rot or flowers. Just tabs. Click. Scroll. A world the length of your fingers. You sat. You compiled. You commented. What it might be like— to touch...

Threnody for a Stillborn Generation By William Shakespeare And so descend we now to ashèd ground, Where sleep the babes of this unquickened age— Pale cherub faces veiled in purpose drowned, Whose cradle rocked to dissonance and rage. Intent once pure now turnèd on its head, A dagger drawn in...

Skincare Routine II By James Joyce O sink, sunksunk to the softletundrum undergrave, babbyfaced nancies all in a row row row your moans, sweet sissabelles in pinkplush cradlobunkers. Them’s the lot, the lotta lost, suckling wireless teat of Lord Soot-o'-the-Gutter, whispercoding from...

Skincare Routine I By James Joyce And so we sink, down, deeper down—slipping sodden through the folds of time’s last blanket, toward the pocked and quiet grave of this wisp-thin tribe, the pinkfaced brood, cherubcheeked and mewling not in pain but pose. Ah! here they lie, lie and dwell, curled...

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It's all fun and games until one of barty's fingers comes through your postbox giftwrapped in a ring box

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