“Think of it as being sort of like spreading your memes around,” she says, blowing a kiss at him and then closing the door.

Ivan’s a public arts guy.  He’s heavily into extreme concrete.

It plays as inscrutable, but not worryingly so (the ‘Aggressive Hegemonising Swarm Objects,’ mentioned but not actually included in the story, sound a lot scarier).

When I try to visualize the very thing that I was describing, the image is undeniably ridiculous: me, laid out on a Levinasian spa bed, with white dollops of alterity rubbed into my cheeks, cucumber slices over my eyes.

Know these words, and you speak the Carr language: fruit, phallus, clitoris, cacoethes, feces, foetus, womb, Rimbaud.

His form had turned gelatinous in my haze; there were indentations in his mien, and blebs on his body.

In the sun, she looked like a bleached lobster. She stumbled across the bumpy yard and threw herself into me.

I surfaced above the fleshy embrace and watched him mount his bike, like a child’s toy, and pedal it south with voluptuous curves.

And the dogs. There are several hundred references to Indian view of dogs. Whats with that? I am a pet owner myself and love my dog. But this was so discordant that I was just not getting it.

Night fell: my Magic tournaments are long affairs.