A little bald man stands behind a podium. Scratching his snowman’s beard, he jerks around shouting, “The ants are stealing the eggs of washed up cunt ” in a robotic fashion as if bellow the podium sits a massive clockwork skeleton. Pink flesh wrapped around cold steel works through his tiny frame. Eyeballs are eyes for the machinist pulling
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I wish we had included a piece like your last - text written over the iceflow - in the forthcoming issue of the Athenaeum; I feel like not having that was a real loss.
- Pedro Zapata
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