The clock on the wall was red. It said 3:37. Tick. Tick. Tick. The paint running dry, the rim cracked and falling to pieces. I went to the bathroom. It said OMBRES which any idiot knows is spelled wrong.
Drifting here on the far side of the moon and sun, she feels strangely at peace. Trigger does, too, in the falling rain and the question of goodbye.
Sometimes, if the dwarf sits quietly enough at his wooden desk under the warm orange glow of his aluminum department store lamp, his mind begins searching across a barren desert for things to write about, and soon an orchestra begins to perform outside the cracked midnight window to his right.