❝ A steady stream of strange short stories spilled from my typewriter, weirder and weirder, more and more breathless and abstract. Reading over them, years later, I can almost picture myself lifting up from my chair, levitating midair, staring off into space, the words that spilled out completely cerebral, not grounded in physical reality, all magical realism, all hallucinatory image, a clear, bizarre progression of stories about women who grew increasingly silent, increasingly pale, thinner and thinner, building to my pitiful literary denouement of that year. I wrote of a woman who disappears into thin air. Then of one who, while walking, finds herself crumbling into a
pile of porcelain dust. ❞
- “Wasted” Marya Hornbacher (via woefultale)
pile of porcelain dust. ❞
- “Wasted” Marya Hornbacher (via woefultale)
