Sublime

“A comic book novel,” Sammy said. He thought of his own by-now legendary novel, American Disillusionment, that cyclone which, for years, had woven its erratic path across the flatlands of his imaginary life, always on the verge of grandeur or disintegration, picking up characters and plotlines like houses and livestock, tossing them aside and movin

Kevin

ameliorated.

He was an unattractive creature with his clothes on; in the nude I thought he looked something like a goat.

Timmy Peterson takes a ball in the groin and goes down like a sack of refined flour.

bucolic