Writers: Be a god. Use facts as your paints. Make up, disregard, mix
and match as you like. Deviate from reason wherever possible whenever
you like. Reason is for TPS reports and other official communiques, the
paper carpet of the bureaucrats, the crats in the bureau, the C-rats
bursting from the bureau there, a lost and moldy bureau deep in the
catacombs. Bureaucats chasing the fleeing bureaurats down in the
bureaucratacombs.

It's like their minds, baby. They save every skeleton. They have their
false faces hanging in endless closets miles long. All the false faces
look very similar. You can hardly tell you've reached another until the
end. It's like looking at a vast display of color in hues only slightly
changing from one to the next, hardly noticeable -- this is just like
time.

Swallow closets miles long. shallow closets full of deep miles. Miles,
when strung along, look like painted snakes, mostly blue & green with
parallax and ultraviolet stains. Parallax stains like a siren on your
mind. sirens bleed your brains red, and speeding toward the hospital,
your hue is blue. Your brains are blue. Your balls are blue and your
brains are gray and your eyes are red. Good thing the EMT girl quickly
jacked me off - I'd hate to die with balls full of come! In true Garp
fashion, she swabbed my sperm inside her vagina, and before long, I
returned, this time as my own progeny. She kept it to herself. It'd
been only her and me back there, after all. Neither of us were telling.
She got the story from my new body. Telling tales from the crib,
searching for words all the time -- like some kind of english patient,
only in this situation the afflication is being a baby. The affliction
is my humanity. So I give her lists of arcane ingredients, and instruct
her in the symbolic rites, and right there, in the middle of my
childhood floor, crib, the blocks, the stuffed animals, my head splits
and the body falls off, and out I step, the very same man from the
ambulance. What kind of woman can go through all that? I wonder
sometimes, but it's clear she's a queen among chicks. My wife...think
I'll keep her.

Subscript -- screenplay about two subs. The writing you use on subs.
The writing you use beneath the ocean to communicate with the currents.
To send notes to the ghosts. The ghosts of the ancient sailors.
Starsailors, like ancient Spaniards, drifting on the spaceways. Josh
Slocum of the future, in the currents between the stars, adrift in the
gale from a nearby nova, and Vlaktar of the Adromon Galaxy appears on
his bridge, twining his palps round the tiller -- is he real or a
dream? Josh is too hopped up on metadrine to know, he just runs about
reefing sails at Vlaktar's request.

do you want to be a rat in Bureau C?
there's a rat in Bureau C
there's a rat in the Sea Bureau
tell Carstairs about the rat
there's a mole in the garden
he's spying on the begonias
he's betraying the camellias
set the rat on him
fight it out in a pit with the ratters
terriers, those little fucks
terriers, flying harriers
searching with their heatseeking cats