Three book clubs in a trench coat. The bloated corpse of feminism. The essay-est essay. Drop drip. Your neighbors are happier to pretend that I don’t exist. Will you still be my friend now that I don’t have an appendix? I step on the wingbacks of verbs. “Like Brokeback Mountain,” I say, “but in Vietnam.” We eke the temp. We caught a vibe! A mosaic of tan infants and toddlers. A field of human remains gathered on the seafloor. A Coen brothers plot rejected for implausibility. An MFA graduate, not a troglodyte. How about Hillary Clinton’s clock? Peak inspiresting. There will be no help against evil. Butter will start leaking out of my human pores. It’s probably safe to assume that you have never had the sublime pleasure of shaping the earth with the powerful arm of a forty-ton-plus excavator. “Good Lord, I can’t believe how good this book is.”

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