Star Wars: Episode VII
Han caught a glimpse of Leia, her hair still shaped into cinnamon buns—though frosted now with grey—and thought of how hot and cross she still was after thirty-five years.
You say you saw feathers poof out of the jet; and so, you opened the door—breathed—then leapt, believing you could survive the plummet.
The News Says Evacuate!
All that is left afterward are half-full shopping carts, though it may be possible, later, to anthropologically reconstruct the people from the food, the small things they planed to plant inside their bodies before the whole thing fell through.
9 million miles after your last symptom they’ll find the lower left half of your temporal in some shit they’ll call a fossil and deduce you drowned “with so much hovering inwardness,” in the sludge of an uncontrollable nest, of a broken heart that said I do to taking flies as wives because every living part swore it had to.
David Lynch’s Pornography Project
In David Lynch’s mail that morning was a crate filled with well-worn, well-loved VHS pornography that he planned on crushing, using an oversized mortar and pestle, into pornography powder for use in paintings of typewriters for a coffee table book on typewriters he was that fiscal quarter pitching to various publishers.