No time. To read, to sort, to enjoy. No time at all. Comics reaching higher and higher toward the ceiling. One week passes and another for batches to sleep and lie upon another. One here, another there. Gone in this one, ready in the other. Eventually the seas of balloons, boxes and talking heads wait in pause to play.
As usual then.
With an ever decreasing span of hours to file. Wicked shot in the arm turns pages toward another cover's end. Closing in from the long start. Witches in for crime fiction. Munchkins in for international time-travelling dimension hopping super spies. Prose between lines over prose between graphics and art.
Tuesday, 21 August 2007 - 22:16
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