The ever-present monsters / soon catch up and A MAN / slowly disappears as the machine utters / a whine another MAN / appears the process repeats
It is the bed you have been resting in
for years. Someone is making coffee
and expecting you to rise.
The cold black
waters of Maine; earthy and lax Mid-
Atlantic; obscene Technicolor
heaven in the South. No partner, no
daughter swinging my hand, singing.
I’ve been walking
all my life.
SAVING…
I FEEL ALIVE INSIDE THIS WINDY AUTUMN DAY
I may or may not be alive inside
I may or may not be alive
I may or may not be
I may or may not be a mountain
We think video games are literature, and so why shouldn't there be literature about video games? That's the question we're hoping to answer here. Read more.