They hunted us, and we in turn hunted them, the smell of our own blood the guide to their demise.
Heed the cone’s message, do what the cone tells you: eat-it-all.
Alfa dog.
The sort of Martin Luther one finds in Bolinas.
A lime-trousered chaos holds sway over this small beach town.
Having found a land where the local population is so lazy that not even they engage in the flying of kites, but entrust the job to sticks jabbed into the sand, we nodded to one another, Yes: this is the place.
We found and named them, poked them with sticks. When they failed to amuse us any longer, sent them back to their watery home, waved goodbye to our sea scum friends.
Could also be referred to as The Trail of Teats.
This year we shall summer in the void.