That summer: Britpop flavour. Blurring the lines on the sexuality rewrite to skipping soundtrack hymn of what-the-fuck. It’s like we were fresh as hubba-bubba bullshit coloured pink and fluffy as monkey’s cloud. Yeah, the whole post-modern ironic thing; like reality is a hologram where the mundane version and the hyperbolic meet.
We smoked down the pulp [...]
Filed under: Prose, Short Story | Tagged: Prose, Short Story, writing | 1 Comment »
