For me, Twitter is a working out. I went for months of tweets with not much more than a gull, weeks with just a time of day (noon), and days, most recently, with just the cootie catcher.
My suites center on the quick and the dead:
Editing in iPhoto, I turn my beach pics into snow pics by turning down the temperature. When the sand turns white, the haze turns blue.
The spirits of dead blogs. The necromancy of the Wayback Machine.
A comment on his final post: a link to a 2KB gif animation – a flickering candle.
When I was in my twenties, I thought my teenage years were drugs. Each iteration sees its progenitors as hallucinogens.
Back then, I effectuated, consummated, carried off more and more, immortal.
A slab of cloud hisses on dawn’s gas stove. Across the vale and atop the steeple, an ornate, Latin electric chair glints.
All in white, the candidate knelt before the gallows, awaiting the bishop’s hands. Around her neck, a sterling noose, her godparents’ gift.
The sun rises in the south and sets there. East and west are refinements, dark and white wines we describe with migrating adjectives.