| Does anyone have a better quality of this? |
[25 Nov 2009|04:01pm] |
( Click )
Sorry if I'm not coding this right :(
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| Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk. |
[21 Nov 2009|10:38pm] |
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In the house on Paper Street, a police detective stated calling about
my condominium explosion, and Tyler stood with his chest against my
shoulder, whispering into my ear while I held the phone to the other ear,
and the detective asked if I knew anyone who could make homemade dynamite.
"Disaster is a natural part of my evolution," Tyler whispered, "toward
tragedy and dissolution."
I told the detective that it was the refrigerator that blew up my
condo.
"I'm breaking my attachment to physical power and possessions,' Tyler
whispered, "because only through destroying myself can I discover the
greater power of my spirit."
The dynamite, the detective said, there were impurities, a residue of
ammonium oxalate and potassium perchloride that might mean the bomb was
homemade, and the dead bolt on the front door was shattered.
I said I was in Washington, D.C., that night.
The detective on the phone explained how someone had sprayed a canister
of Freon into the dead-bolt lock and then tapped the lock with a cold chisel
to shatter the cylinder. This is the way criminals are stealing bicycles.
"The liberator who destroys my property," Tyler said, "is fighting to
save my spirit. The teacher who clears all possessions from my path will set
me free."
The detective said whoever set the homemade dynamite could've turned on
the gas and blown out the pilot lights on the stove days before the
explosion took place. The gas was just the trigger. It would take days for
the gas to fill the condo before it reached the compressor at the base of
the refrigerator and the compressor's electric motor set off the explosion.
"Tell him," Tyler whispered. "Yes, you did it. You blew it all up.
That's what he wants to hear."
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| Mr.Vengenz |
[16 Nov 2009|01:59pm] |
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zacky
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| Kindred by Octavia Butler |
[16 Nov 2009|10:26am] |
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He had written and published three novels, he told me, and outside members of his family, he'd never met anyone who'd read one of them. They'd brought so little money that he'd gone on taking mindless jobs like this one at the warehouse, and he'd gone on writing—unreasonably, against the advice of saner people. He was like me—a kindred spirit crazy enough to keep on trying.
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