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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Social interaction is the time-devouring career that the hermit chooses to resign from each and every day of his existence.
I found Hermit Joe’s self-published book, Linguistics - Evolution’s Wrong Turn, to be an interesting and rivoting read, and was especially intrigued with his concept that the development of spoken language led to the demise of all basic, human instincts; I did, however, find the chapter on government-enforced tongue removal to be a bit over the top, if not distasteful, no pun intended.
is it a bad sign when i’m carrying a boot knife and loudly threatening my neighbors labrador with a messy death? i contend it’s not the estrogen, but the lack thereof that’s plaguing me.
It is the fate of the dead or missing to become what we make of here.
And while a pile of bones buried beneath two feet of earth is seldom thought of as being on the move, that is exactly what this particular pile of bones was doing, having made their arrangement with the hermit’s unsuspecting dog, who each morning dropped another one of them off at the hermit’s door, covered in fresh saliva.
“Let’s try another one,” the hermit told Henry, shaking the letter in his face and motioning for him to keep driving, “there’s no romance at this post office either.”
I think that may be one of the things that finally drove me out here. Watching people get themselves all worked up over nothin', then them thinkin' all I've got…
unconditional surrrender had never been part of lucy’s agenda; anarchy reigned as she medicated the pain of the years of melancholia spent on unreciprocated echolalia.
The hermit argued with himself long into the night whether his symbiotic relationship with his hut was ectosymbiosis, since he did spend a great deal of time sitting on its roof, or if it was indeed endosymbiosis, since he equally enjoyed the time spent inside the hut.
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