Earlier that day, a typewriter bomb had exploded at a black market skin house over on Eel Street, sending words raining through the cardboard walls of the boudoirs and tattooing copies of the Machinist’s ‘Twelve Terms’ on the bodies of whores and patrons alike. Forty pieces of merch ruined. Their bodies had been obliterated by language, all traces of their sexuality buried beneath a storm of words. There was something horrific about the sight of those who had survived a typewriter attack. Their faces scarred with text, as if they had become hostages to some awful advertisement. A few of the victims took to working the streets around the library where bibliophiles sometimes paid them to satisfy their fantasies amid the desolate hush of the reading rooms and the deserted stacks where the only witnesses to this erotic pantomime of the blank body and its printed partner were other words. Craig Padawer
We all know interspecies romance is weird.
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Tim Burton
This must be Thursday, ' said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.
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Douglas Adams
The life where nothing was ever unexpected. Or inconvenient. Or unusual. The life without colour, pain or past.
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Lois Lowry
Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.
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Lois McMaster Bujold
I ask of you your lives, ” Elend said, voice echoing, “and your courage. I ask of you your faith, and your honor–your strength, and your compassion. For today, I lead you to die. I will not ask you to welcome this event. <span style="margin:15px;...
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Brandon Sanderson
More Quotes By Craig Padawer
Earlier that day, a typewriter bomb had exploded at a black market skin house over on Eel Street, sending words raining through the cardboard walls of the boudoirs and tattooing copies of the Machinist’s ‘Twelve Terms’ on the bodies of whores and patrons alike. Forty...
