Write a story about a 'psychic hospital'. Not psychiatric, actually psychic. Possibly use as Act II of the 'suicide partner' want-ad story/idea.

time is determined by how we carry on
when you're gone

you go to sleep and wake up hanging from the lightswitch.

we've decided on Little Mammoth, somehow splitting the difference between the name of this blog and Pachyderms. wild.

Bands that don't exist yet

But they still may, one day...

model cities
little creatures
hungry ghosts
applecores & omnivores
seed bombs
small mammals
the cute boots
al qaeda
the nervous system
the schizmatics
sea section
cloud patterns
suture self
flesh fruit
cosmonauts
somnopolis
the prosthetics
skeleton prom
book clubs
the skin grafts

like a book on a shelf, i could live.

love means having to change the locks.

i'm mad at the things that i can't change
i'm afraid of the things that i can.

The man walked in the other room and saw a bowl full of snails.

He walked around the bowl, around the lockers and the piles of socks left across the room and peeked inside the thin glass dome. He peered at the wriggling, writhing little tongues inside as they kissed slowly.

What are you? How did you get here? the man asked.

We are snails, said the snails. We are here to suck your blood.

The man's eyes grew wide. His heart grew faint and his blood was soft and thin, like the clouds at night. His hand slapped the side of the bowl, sending it spinning off its perch on the table, sending it spinning off into space and rolling through the air and crashing and cracking into the hard floor below.

Ah but now you have set us free, said the snails as they twisted and wallowed around at his feet, their slime pierced by broken glass.

Now you are ours.

This is the second time this weekend that someone has said I was 22. My birthday is in 8 days. I will be 26.