The gate was always shut. To leave it open was a sin, a crime against humanity, an act of negligence so awful it struck his father wordless, silent, dancing a short step jig of anger, face flushed, eyes bulging, fit to burst. He left it swinging and never came back.
She felt a tremor of excitement, a frisson of anticipation. It all came down to this. Everything was arranged, there was no turning back. The other participants in this, what she called 'a Gothic drama', may be secured with zip locks and gags but for her, it was a collaboration. Image source: Wallpaper Abyss
Thank you, those tiny number of miniscule you who acknowledge my existence , when you can or where there's fuck all else to do, THANK YOU. I''m really grateful to you because, hey, you amount to the achievement (however minor) to which I've always aspired, to connect to people who think.
Isn't it unfortunate that a word like 'blanket' can be so misused and abused it's become a shorthand phrase for corporate smothering, indiscriminate bombing and wholesale exploitation? Growing up, a blanket was something a cowboy toted with his saddle and bags, it kept you warm and gave a child comfort.
Municipal officials argued the city needs a symbol, a monument. So they commissioned artists for ideas. The winning entry was a 120 meter tall, stainless steel, pin-like structure. Oblivious to the irony of a city devastated by a heroin epidemic, they called it The Spire. Dublin people call it The Spike.