In the morning, his lawn is covered with poems, which take the form of ribbon and coloured streamers. His neighbor is a poet, so that narrows things down a bit. Inevitably, he goes to complain.
I've been reading Vermilion Sands this past week, a collection of short stories by JG Ballard that are all based in a fictitious desert holiday community - Palm Springs or the scorched armpits of Arizona - at some point in the nebulous future. It's a short book but I'm eking it out. I don't want it to end. I knew I was going to love it - there's Ballard, of course, but it's also hard not feel something for a paperback that comes with its own 3D glasses for viewing the fractal depths of the cover art.
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