I am going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep, sleep, eat. Exist slowly, softly, like these trees, like a puddle of water, like the red bench in the streetcar.
Jean-Paul Sartre (via theprospectofvanishingforever)
I waited all year for the purple squithers to flop onto the beach and waddle onto the promenade. What sounds they uttered in the cloak of darkness! Their chapped lips heralding their coming to those sleeping in beach huts far from the tide. Yet no one awoke to meet them there in pleading dozens, but I.
I—the keen and cunning squithologist—engaged in conversation with the seething squithers. Yes, from my satchel I fed them malt loaf and cream crackers, all under the midnight hymn of seawater. They gargled and spluttered wildly—flopping and slopping; squirming with yearning for more food and dry warmth. If only the pantry stayed full!
