Anyone using “just” in that way—I just wanted to understand, to help, to find out—is lying.
Jeremy Clyde, Phenomenology of Falsehood.
“It cannot be known, Janet, just how sorry I am.”
Agatha Vox, When Everything Was Singing.
He spent long winter evenings hovering over his biographer and taunting him occasionally with exclamations: “Well, don’t I seem fascinating in that sentence!”
Lane Vivian, A Knob of Old Cheese and Ten Short Tales.
“Come now, Evelyn. Everyone senses that things are falling apart. But sensing it and facing up to it are two separate matters.”
Nicholas Crisp, Unfit for Murder.
Recently, Charlie had begun the serious pursuit of a new form of literature. Something he called Talking to the TV.
Clifford Apogee, Draining the Pools—A Collection of Stories.
“What’s exciting, Mrs. Vickery, is to be even the very smallest part of a grand statistical array.“
Benedict Elder, A Cosmopolitan Paradise.
sigh wren
Andrew Tertullian, Pandora’s Ponderous Puns.
“Allow me to introduce you to inescapable confusion,” said Hollingsworth. “Also known as Derrida’s Dream.”
Thaddeus Crewes, Crowded Evil World.
dennis scharnberg 