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I was lost when they let me out so I went down to the shipyard.

I was lying with electricity. I was already a story being told.

Literary gatherings are a nightmare because writers have no shop talk.

The pickup trucks in this portfolio were photographed in June 2015.

Our eyes searched for the island, but ahead there was only overcast.

At Pompeii the little dog lay curled and did not rise but slept the deeper.

“The basis of literary friendship is mixing the poisoned bowl.”

I’ve got my hands around the man’s legs when I notice the blood.