Status Updates From Plastic Soul

Humans, in their vapid stupidity, always associate the new with the great, cannot see beyond their own nose, and forget an event ten seconds after it has occurred. If this is progress, please let me die in my sleep this evening. If this is progress, let the world burn, I want no more of it.

If a man is silent, he is stoic, if a woman is silent, she is a bitch, a childish word I abhor. Why is this? Why is a silent woman feared? Why does the world continue to move in opposite directions, pulling itself apart by greed, by ignorance, by the small tail between men's legs?

On the first floor, which was more a suggestion of a life than the actual lives we lived, several bookshelves lined the walls, filled with garbage books, a wall of commonality reserved for guests who never browsed.

The field dips in pollen-flecked waves, my legs carrying me forward, my feet uncontrolled farm equipment destroying the soil as I walk, my childhood erupting in cakewarm black piles. In the clearing, along the edge of gold, sudden horror as the field drops away into black fathomless water. The water stretches as far as I can see, an eternal sheet of black glass.

Nulick is a master of prose and scene-setting. He also captures very well the tragedy of the inevitably decaying human relationship.