Doru Chirodea

one fights the forceps impinging upon futility to rest a finger on dead center one from a future battle has returned right now one slips in depths of cyclamen milk like arboreal

So I go, \"What\'s up Pete?\" while he collapses down by the fridge and gasps: \"They stole my painting, man! They screwed me all the way.\" \"You wanna beer?\" I ask. \"No Slice, give me some shit

The other day, for reasons only he may grasp, Pete asked me to read something in his favorite medical zine. He says I should check out this one article. Half-heartedly I complied and through my

I can scarcely tell things apart, I\'m scared stiff amid this darkness. Nevertheless, I did make it. Pete\'s painting is right in front of me. I can see it now; it\'s about five by eight inches,

I don\'t even know what to worry about first; Pete\'s handgun or his intriguing painting, I could not see last night. I\'ll go back to the gallery; that\'s for sure. I\'ll pretend I\'m a collector or

I promised my friend I\'d go to his opening. He is a painter. On the way to the gallery, my boring walk reminds me of something but I cannot remember what. So, i sway down the street together with my

strange labyrinth this giant wound you can\'t point out from all obtuse matter colliding inside you yet it alone offers the privilege of grinding your tongue into a puree laughter much

so what all the attempts to hold your eyes\' look void and still have failed we do still own horrendous stocks of prometheus liver lookalikes so what we couldn\'t tune the cybernetic

you dream you entering this insect whose prevented access to clepsydra asylum molds you into an utter semaphore that restricts the sphere of freely exhaling agonies from specifically marked