He stepped into the bathtub stained with a vitiligo of scum.
the Instron like an upended lathe, machines far harder to replace thatn he was
Linda was angry that they could settle so easily into prescribed social roles, down to the smallest exchange--arguments over buying single-ply toilet paper or refilling the Brita pitcher, then collapsing together to watch reality TV in silence, too exhausted to even make fun of it.
No ideas, only intellectual property; no avant-garde, only controversy; no ars poetica, only personal essays; no major writers, only writing majors.
Linda on writing workshops. the last bit is mildly funny
