and in fact almost all of those books - almost all of them - were fake, empty. the library as a whole was as light as a feather because the covers were plastic, the sides plastic, and inside, nothing - like video cartridge boxes, the cartridges stolen or lost, never returned or never even made.

I slammed the sash up and gulped air. the chill burnt my lungs but I needed it; the feeling of warm asphyxiation had been powerful and sudden. I called Jose away from the mirror and beckoned her up and over the ledge. I followed, grateful for the full moon light.

the blood itself was like a garden. under the streetlights and the moon it turned into a bed of roses, took on unimaginable depth. flowers pooled one against another, snuggled, lit up.