Loretta waged war against the museum curators. They never saw her coming. She was the speck of dust tightrope-walking through the air, the rain left standing in pools by the entrance on rainy days.
I've always felt slightly guilty about getting paid to do this sort of art—how could something so fun be worth actual money? Come to think of it, I need to remember to check the classifieds for professional tiramisu-tasting positions.
There's a romantic glow about them—they tend to look like exquisite fairy-tale castles from the outside, and on the inside they are full of rooms and corridors and entire huge wings, high ceilings and places that you could lose your way in.
The ship is hot; it backfires / in the last row of corn, and there is popcorn in the night / which isn't supposed to happen
