The Tinkerer sits in your room, sleeves rolled up, his face clenched tight as a fist. Since noon he’s been hunkered squint-eyed under a hook light, plying your larynx with a pair of tiny crescent wrenches. He pinned the skin of your throat back butterfly-style to give himself more elbow room, and now he’s fingering the pitch pipe beneath your chin. Your voice lessons didn’t go so well today.?

I would take the things that had no power of their own into my plastic play home. It was there that I pretended to be a woman. I was hungry and bored by the story of the fox and wolf.

Next door to the toilet of an apartment building on the edge of the city, in a room soggy with roof leaks and cooking vapors, lived a poor artist named Argon.

As if in response to these words a faint moan came from the girl’s lips. Slowly she began to recover her senses. With each shuddering breath, the spider’s legs stirred as if they were alive.

You are quick like a monkey, running through the tree-tops, But now you will die.

Face up their eyes sometimes open and filling with miniature lakes, rivers down their temples, the children howling and their teeth useless fangs

I want to be fucked savagely by a pack of wolves.