and I’m just over it,” the artist complained to her analyst. →

Her fist bloomed in the critic’s ass. “This is where we’ll keep your baby,” was her fanged whisper. What inspired the ‘we’? he wanted to know but was too afraid to ask. She felt sick to her stomach and opened her eyes. →

The pediatric therapist asks the child how long something took and the child cocks his head in a way that to the therapist suggests time wasn’t a measure he could keep external. →

“…god, I’m so sick of all these weirdos in kooky glasses navel gazing, sending these incomprehensible emails with a bunch of words they’ve made up,” the artist overheard one of the city employees saying as she mazed her way through the cubicles to the elevator. “Even this one, like this is the most coherent we’ve […]

According to her ex-husband she’d manifested egomaniacal tendencies, was smug, was no good with the accounts. “All these people running around, wasting their time, supporting you!” was one of the last judgements she remembered passed on her, hurled at her, what, now some fifteen years ago? Shows, things: The metal she herself hewed. Rehashing press […]

after years in the studio slinging lead. “Why don’t you just give someone else the instructions,” her gallerist had once urged. “We’ll help you hire them, you’d probably make more money in the end. It would definitely speed up production time.” She didn’t need the money—her career, her wife’s, the inheritance, it was fine, really. […]