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Smith Smith was no different than any other man at the office. All of the workers were young, eager; the shoe polish on their loafers still shown; the creases on their suits were still sharp and crisp. Smith worked in a small cubicle on the fortieth floor of the building of Weston, Lansing and Jones. On the walls he had pinned a picture of his girlfriend and a photograph of his brother. Smith did not perfectly resemble the other workers. He was a bit too thin, as though he had skipped meals he shouldn't have, and his face was more defined. Smith's features were comparably chiseled to the fine standards of an ancient GrSmith
by ~iconographie
Blackout - Chapter OneWhen the alarm rings after a night spent observing your ceiling, you could destroy the world with your bare hands and have no qualms about it. Muscle memory guided me in hitting the button as I always did, and before my eyes had stopped burning I was out of bed. Night was a period of time I constantly tried—and failed—to recover, and time was too precious to waste on insomnia. I showered rapidly, pulled on clothes, and minutes later I was opening the door to my office. Riley's chair was empty—exactly the way it shouldn't have been—and I sat in the chair opposite hers, behind my desk. I licked my lipBlackout - Chapter One
by ~iconographie
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One cannot conceive anything so strange and so implausible that it has not already been said by one philosopher or another.
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To correctly day dream:
"All you have to do is tilt your head to the left, close your eyes, and let your mind soar like an eeeeeagle"
I suspect this'll look quite wierd when posted.
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One cannot conceive anything so strange and so implausible that it has not already been said by one philosopher or another.
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One cannot conceive anything so strange and so implausible that it has not already been said by one philosopher or another.
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00101010citizen17
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unbearable lightness of being
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