Stretch sylphlike-aërial into the airwaves [...]
My voice strains as I reach the high note. The music is not regularly voiced, and the quality of the note feels dissonant in my throat. You should not sing from your throat. It is bad practice.
The heat in the office was stifling, the young women working in Project C glancing over at each other periodically to exchange raised eyebrows accompanied by hand-wafting gestures towards their face. Being in Project A, Lance Helbark’s desk was as far from the air conditioning as possible, and as such he was much worse off than the girls in C.
I stab myself through the head with a serrated blade, but I am not dead yet. The story continues.
O, tattered skyline so many miles across Greens, reds and silvers Skellein structures and mismatched colours
The cadence starts in C, as if to tease the major scale, but it loses all tonal sense instantaneously. The instrument it is played on does not exist: could not exist.
I met somebody at work today. There was something about his eyes that rang hollow like the kind of expression I imagine people see me to have.
I was surprised by the weather. I don't know why, it being the vague start of summer and all, but you never know in England. I was sitting in the sun, smoking a rollup, listening to 'Major Leagues' by Pavement (from their final album, 1999's Terror Twilight), and drinking a can of Sprite.
The collar of my shirt is soaked through, and my feet are sweating so much that it feels as if I’m walking through a swamp. The girl behind the counter asks me for ID, and I take out my provisional driving licence.
Drawing near to the end now. I’m ready for it. I think. Been waiting for them to come for me for a while now. It’s a nice room – not too cold, not too warm. Full air conditioning, what a rarity – and it’s quiet for miles around.