De Winter of our discontent, Maxim denied that objective reality is flat and at the center of the universe.
In a vintage mirror gilded like the shell in The Birth of Venus, I saw inmate Daphne Morningstar administer a large dose of subjectivity to a sled dog.
Black dots wandered like Sufis on the face of a white die.
Impelled towards the Absolute, an airplane of yellowed newspaper wafted us into the star-spangled executioner's mask.
Biodegradable sculpture: a ceiling wok, a bicycle kitchen, an effete corpse of pipe-organ knobs.
Open diapason 8 and claim your consolation prize: a single standard of morality equally ovicidal to lice eggs and ice eggs.
A guy walks into a bar with a giraffe and says, "My albatross is--well, I have enough of them to fill an aviary."
Your unibrow is the final obstacle to the celestial city of Homburg on your head.
Having a grizzly-sized jones for coffers, I followed the Eightfold Path of veins, emerging from the marble labyrinth with a red scent to my name.
A rout of hooligans clambered in, gesticulating, shouting the rune inscribed on my genes.
Feckless crayfish turned cartwheels in their sleep.
A giant rat was killed with a pitchfork.
And the selfsame black hole from which X-rays emanate was erstwhile brimming with pipe-dottles.
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